


The Blood of Stars

by seadevilry



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minor Violence, Multi, Threats of Violence, all my warrior caste ocs let me show them to you, so many and all of them so terrible, thanks i hate it, who would have thought the minbari warrior caste would be my lockdown hyperfixation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23733328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seadevilry/pseuds/seadevilry
Summary: Years before the Earth-Minbari War the cracks between the castes had already begun to take form.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 24





	1. The End is Where We Begin

**Author's Note:**

> I'm largely following show canon and ignoring the books for this (though I am taking some stuff, of course). Mostly this was just an excuse to play about with some of my own head canons about Minbari society and, more specifically, the Warrior Caste. Basically I am just having a good time making stuff up and playing about with ideas. Also I am high-key fascinated by Branmer, and this is the result.
> 
> Disclaimer/warning: Since the focus of this story is the Warrior Caste then naturally some of the characters in this will express views that are not my own. Being human I am obviously not in favor of my own species annihilation in a genocidal war. Also this is a work of fiction.

_“The council imposed balance between the castes by suppressing the old resentments, the fears, the imagined slights, but it could not erase them.”_ \- Lennier

Even with her eyes closed, the light hurt. It seemed to pierce through her lids and deep into her skull, coming again and again like tiny shards of glass. She raised a hand to cover her eyes, but Valen, how it hurt to move. Her whole body was a vessel of pain, scalded, aching and marked with her intended sacrifice. And that was the second pain, which burned past her flesh to the soul - it had not been her sacrifice in the end.

“They are here,” Lennier spoke close to her ear, helping her sit up. “I will lower the lights. It is too much for you.”

And then, once that was done, Delenn opened her eyes and looked on what remained of the Warrior Caste leadership.

They were a small, shattered group - a mix of Clan Elders, Clan Leaders, Alyts and former Satais. All that was left after those loyal to Shakiri had been removed. She recognised only a few of them; two of her fellow Satais, a couple of Alyts and an older Minbari who watched her with a collected expression, his face the match for a long lost friend, but lined with the passage of time.

“Is this all of you?”

“All that could come.” A woman in the centre of the group spoke, the rest stirring to coalesce around her. She was a tall, sharp creature, with dark eyes and a deep, husking voice. “Whatever your purpose I fear we will have to do.”

“And which of you stands as Shai Alyt?”

“That would be me,” the woman replied. “Aiashon ra Ahealden, of the family Avek. I cannot say that I am pleased to be called, but it is what my caste asks, and I must do my duty.”

“I know your name. You served under Branmer?”

“Yes, I had that honour.” A softness filtered over her sharp features momentarily and then Aiashon cleared her throat, “Well, what does the Religious Caste ask of us? Will you rule Minbar now?”

Delenn frowned. “No, that is not our way.”

There was a bitter, startled laugh from one of the assembled Warriors. He covered his mouth and shook his head. “Not our way? Religion has always taken primacy over all other concerns. Your caste has ruled for a thousand years, Grey Council be damned.”

“Morreal” -Aiashon held up a hand, silencing him- “that is enough. Speak, Delenn. What is your purpose with us?”

Delenn sat up straighter, trying to will the pain in her bones away. Morreal’s words troubled her, but she couldn’t show it. “I require two names from you - two among you who would lead with wisdom, patience, and understanding. Who among you do you trust to speak for you, and speak well?”

A murmur started up, silenced by a sharp gesture from Aiashon. Delenn was seeing quickly why she had been chosen as Shai Alyt - this was a woman who would have no trouble controlling her caste. It was clear the others respected and deferred to her. Aiashon stared her down, dark eyes hard. “May we confer for a moment?”

“Of course,” Delenn said, leaning back against Lennier. “But I must have them now.”

Aiashon nodded and the Warriors curled around her, breaking out into Fik as they talked, voices low and urgent. Delenn was too exhausted to do more than close her eyes and let their murmuring wash over her, catching only a few words here or there.

“...must be them, it is the only choice…”

“...he can't return to duty as before, he knows it…”

“...Mazetch? What do you…”

“Then it will be done,” Aiashon declared suddenly, bringing the chorus to a halt, “and do not look so sour, Morreal. You will have your dues yet.”

Delenn opened her eyes to find the Warriors ranged before her again, Aiashon with her head and shoulders set proudly. Delenn found her strength to speak again, “Have you chosen?”

“We have,” Aiashon said, and a Warrior was pushed forward from the crowd. He was younger than many of those present, but there was a calm about him - a centered determination - as he raised his chin to meet Delenn’s gaze. “Alyt Mazetch ra Shaibar’nik ele'Fi’Sularae of the family Kazve. He has served two Shai Alyts with honour and wisdom and he will serve you the same whatever your purpose. I will be sorry to lose him to you. I need him more than ever, but if any will speak for our caste, it should be him.”

Shaibar’nik ele'Fi’Sularae - a Star Rider who had married into the Moon Shields. Branmer had left Yedor to attend a wedding between the two clans once, many years before the war with Earth. He had come back strangely melancholic, and when Delenn had asked, only replied that he’d been given too much to consider. She hadn’t understood what he meant until much later. It was a bitter memory, and she turned away from it, back to Mazetch and Aiashon. “And your second choice?”

“He is not here,” Aiashon said, “but we are all in agreement. It must be Shakat ra Fe’enduma of the family Azaelnri.”

Fe’enduma. A Night Walker. Shakiri’s clan before he married into the Wind Swords. Delenn frowned. “I have heard of Shakat before. What I heard was not good.”

“What you heard was true, once,” an older Minbari, his sharp face lined by cares, remarked. Delenn recognised him: Alyt Verann. They had met once years before on the Valen’tha and the circumstances of their meeting had made forgetting impossible. “But he’s not the headstrong, foolish creature he used to be. Shakiri put an end to that.”

A palpable tension ran through the Warriors. Morreal looked more bitter than ever, and even stone faced Mazetch seemed uncomfortable. Delenn looked from face to face, but found no answer. “Explain.”

“He challenged Shakiri.” For the first time since the meeting had begun one of Delenn’s fellow former Satai, Coplann, spoke up in a low drawl, “It was when the war first broke out and Shakiri began to sanction the breaking of Valen's Ban and the murder of our fellow Minbari.”

Verann nodded. “He was lucky to live. As it is, he will probably never be able to use his right arm again.”

“It was broken during the fight,” Coplann said, “and he did not receive medical attention until it had already begun to heal crookedly.”

“That is why he is not here,” Aiashon added, “as soon as peace was settled he was released and taken to my personal physician. He is with her now, to see if anything can be done to fix the damage.”

“He was warned not to do it. Neroon tried to stop him, but he did it anyway.” Verann shook his head.

“At least he was willing to act!” Morreal snapped. “While the rest of you stood by silent and cowering.”

“And what did you do, Morreal,” Coplann said dryly, “but run back to your compound and hide?”

“True. I did. I don’t deny it. When the time came to be tested I ran away. I’ll not pretend otherwise, and that is why I won’t judge Shakat. What he did was brave. He knew the true duty of a Warrior and he stood by it, whatever price had to be paid.”

A slow, creeping horror was filling Delenn as she listened to the Warriors bicker; Shakiri had deliberately maimed one of his own caste. She was perhaps not as familiar with Warrior customs and ways as she should have been, but she knew that Warriors prided themselves in their physical strength and that what Shakiri had done would be considered a great cruelty. She wondered what other terrors lurked behind the wall of black uniforms.

“Not all of us were even given the option to protest,” a tall Warrior who stood close to Mazetch spoke, “or were in a position to do so.”

“I don’t fault you Vashaer, or the other Shaibar’nik who suffered the same,” Morreal said, “but as for myself, and the rest of us… this is a shame that we will carry forever.”

“You think we do not know tha-” Verann began but stopped when Aiashon once again held up her hand.

“That is enough,” she said softly. “You are unsettling the Entil’zha.”

“What” -Delenn looked between them all, fighting back nausea- “what has been happening in the Warrior Caste?”

It was the old Minbari with the too familiar face who answered her. “A great many unfortunate ‘accidents’.”

“Did you think,” Verann said, dryly, “that the violation of Valen’s Ban would extend only to your own caste?”

“It was never done openly,” another voice emerged from the gathered Warriors. Mazetch shifted and a slender woman, like a taut string about to snap, stepped to the front. Delenn knew her, it was Alyt Janeri, a war leader of the Ahealden. “It appeared as nothing more than a series of strange accidents. But believe me, there was nothing accidental about Alyt Sarzhan’s rather untimely death.”

“Or Satai Kerval’s,” Coplann said quietly. “Or any of the others.”

Delenn started. “Kerval is dead? I heard nothing of this.”

“It wasn’t widely reported,” Janeri added. “But the circumstances were peculiar: a flyer crash caused by instrumentation failure. Shakat was lucky he challenged Shakiri so directly, and in front of so many other Warriors. Otherwise he might be dead now too.”

Aiashon heaved a sigh, cutting off any further talk, and met Delenn’s gaze directly. “We have a great deal of work to do, Entil’Zha, to heal our caste. You have the names you asked for, and if there is nothing further you need of us, we have already lingered here gossiping for too long.”

“Of course,” Delenn said, clasping her hands together to conceal the way they were shaking. She had seen and heard too many terrible things in the past weeks, and now more were added to her store. “Thank you, all of you, for your counsel, and for sharing all that you have. The years have been hard on us all, and there is harder work still, but I know that you have the strength for this.”

Aiashon bowed. “Thank you, Entil’zha.”

All of the Warriors saluted and began to leave, all but one, the old familiar faced Minbari. He lingered, watching her with such an intense, scrutinizing look that she felt all her fears and weaknesses were laid bare. The other Warriors, realising he had not moved, halted.

“Kedrunn,” Alyt Verann touched his arm.

“I would ask the Entil’zha something before we leave.” Kedrunn brushed away Verann’s hand. “Neroon did not confide any of his plans with us. I want to know what he died for. What will you do? You asked for two names, for what purpose?”

Warriors need to know, she remembered Branmer saying once, you can't just demand their obedience without paying a price. And now, staring down his father, she couldn't refuse to answer, “I will reform the Grey Council.”

Aiashon frowned but said nothing.

Kedrunn’s eyes narrowed. “You asked for two names. Three is traditional.”

“I think it is time we made new traditions. The old ones have not always served us well.”

“Then your caste will ru-” Morreal began but Delenn cut him off.

“No, we will not. When I reform the council I will call two from your caste, two from my own, and five from the Worker Caste.” Delenn gripped her hands together tightly, willing away the pain that echoed through her body. “It is time for both our castes to step back, to advise rather than lead. What have we done in a thousand years except squabble with each other? It ends now.”

Strangely this seemed to please Morreal, he smiled - a crooked, fleeting thing- and his eyes flicked up and down her, reassessing. What he concluded she could not tell, but she felt, or hoped, that it was better than his initial impression had been. 

Kedrunn, she could not make out. His face had gone very bland and inscrutable. It was an expression she remembered from Branmer, not one often used when he had been a priest, but as a Warrior it had become almost constant. 

“Neroon knew this was your plan?” Aiashon cocked her head to one side. “He agreed to this?”

“Yes, he knew.” Delenn lifted her chin, she was beginning to tire now. She needed to rest before she addressed all of Minbar. “He believed it was right.”

There was a flicker in Kedrunn’s expression, Delenn almost missed it, but it was there: pride. 

“I will confess, Delenn,” Aaishon said. “I did not come here with much faith in you, or in the fitness of your caste to lead, but I had faith in Neroon and he had faith in you. Faith enough to die for you and for your caste. I see that his belief was not entirely misplaced. You’ll do.”

Delenn smiled, not sure if she should feel pleased or patronised. “And what would you have done if I had decided that the religious caste _should_ rule?”

A predatory smile glanced across Aiashon’s face. “I’ve never seen the point in dwelling on hypotheticals. Just be glad you don’t have to know.”

She made another sharp, cutting gesture and the Warriors began to leave again, Kedrunn with them. As Delenn saw his face, so like Branmer’s, turning away, she felt a stab to her heart. “Wait” -she held out her hand- “Sech Kedrunn, I would speak to you.”

He stepped back toward her, nodding to Aiashon and Verann as they left. Then it was just Delenn, Kedrunn, and Lennier. Delenn nodded at him. “Lennier, I would be alone with Kedrunn.”

Lennier frowned, but bowed and left.

“Do you mind if I lie down?” Delenn began settling herself on the bed again. “I’ve worn myself out talking.”

“Of course, Entil’zha.” Kedrunn inclined his head.

“I do not know whether I should consider Aiashon an enemy or a friend.” Delenn smiled, tucking a pillow under her neck so did not have to twist to see Kedrunn properly.

“Perhaps neither,” Kedrunn said. “Perhaps just a woman who has been burdened by the responsibility of a caste that, even at the best of times, is contentious and difficult to lead. She doesn't even know who she can trust among her own caste, let alone whether she can trust you. She may never be your friend, but treat her like an enemy and that’s what she’ll become.”

And she heard the unspoken remonstrance behind his words: don’t make the same costly mistake you made with Neroon. “I will try, Kedrunn.”

Kedrunn came to stand by her bedside, hands clasped before him. “Why did you want to speak to me?”

Delenn laced her fingers together, hands trembling again. “It is something I should have said a long time ago. I’ve waited too long. A part of me couldn’t face you after everything.”

Kedrunn shook his head and looked away, biting his lip. It was not hard to read him now, his whole form was outlined with grief. “Neroon was not my blood, but all the same... I have outlived two sons now, and have not lit the pyres and said the proper words for either of them. All that has been taken from me.”

“I am sorry, Kedrunn.”

He wiped a hand across his face. “Is that what you wanted to say?”

“Yes.” Delenn frowned at her hands. “And that I wish I could have understood your caste better in the past, and sooner.”

“You talk like you never had the opportunity. Branmer invited you to Tinarel many times, but you never came. You never tried, Delenn.”

“I am sorry.” She lifted her head to look at him. “I-I… it troubled me to see him after the war with Earth. To see him on a path that was not-”

“Not what?” Kedrunn’s eyes narrowed. “I would be careful what you say next, Delenn. I’ve more fondness for your caste than most Warriors, but even I have limits.”

“-was not his _choice_.”

Kedrunn’s eyes widened fractionally. He shook his head, laughing almost as bitterly as Morreal, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked every bit an exasperated parent, worn out by the excesses of his children. “Branmer worried about you. He thought that you made a habit of burdening yourself too much - of carrying the blame for events that were beyond your control. Everything must be your fault, he said, even when it makes no sense. I can see he was correct.”

“If I am not to blame then who? You don’t know what I have seen, and what I have done. So much would not have happened, if not for me.” Delenn shifted, trying to sit up again, but fell back, feeling pain run wild through her body. “Branmer would not-”

“Branmer would have joined the Warrior Caste regardless of the war with the Humans, Delenn.” Kedrunn laid a hand on hers. “It was already in his heart. He did not find the voice for it until then, but it was there. I saw it. I was not the only one. And denying it troubled him. We talk so much about how important the calling of the heart is, but how many of us have the strength to walk away from the caste we have been born into without some trepidation?”

Delenn pressed an arm to her face, feeling the tears swelling up. She’d held back for such a long time, but it was too late. She could feel it all now, the burden of years crushing down her; of all the terrible things she had seen and done and endured. “I have made so many mistakes.”

“You cannot live a life without regrets,” Kedrunn said, “but at least let them be the regrets that actually belong to you. You ask, if I am not to blame then who? There is no _one_ person. We are all to blame.”

A polite cough from the doorway interrupted Delenn before she could reply. Lennier was back. She wanted to say, you don’t understand, Kedrunn, I am the reason for the war with Earth. _I_ was the deciding vote. If not for me none of this would have happened. There is so much blood on my hands, Human and Minbari, that it may never wash out - but Lennier had taken a step into the room, eyeing Kedrunn warily.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Delenn, but it’s time to leave for the Valen’tha.”

Delenn struggled upright, taking Kedrunn’s proffered arm, and leaning heavily on him, every step towards Lennier a struggle. As Kedrunn passed her to Lennier he hesitated, a flicker of indecision in his face resolving into purpose. 

“Delenn,” he said, “when this is over and you have finished your business with the humans too, come to Tinarel.”

“Would I be welcome?”

“Of course.” He smiled for the first time. “You would always be welcome, Delenn. Perhaps you will even find it enlightening. You wouldn’t be the first of your caste to do so, and hopefully not the last.”

He gripped her hands in a shared promise and as they parted she felt lighter, as if some of the weight of the past had been lifted away. This was where it ended, walking out of blood and death into the prospect of a better future: one where perhaps, finally, old resentments could be laid to rest. But she wondered, looking back at Kedrunn and considering his words, if not with her, if not with the Earth-Minbari war, where had it all begun?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love writing Delenn and her redemption complex. Next chapter will shift back in time to Branmer before the E-M War and will be a lot less serious in tone. There will be some shipping eventually, but not until the later parts of the story when all the characters are adults so I've elected not to tag for ships yet and add them when relevant (spoiler: it's gonna be Branmer/Neroon. i just. i ship it ok. 'my feelings for the shai alyt' yes neroon tell us more about your feelings please).


	2. The Warrior's Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to attempt to fathom Minbari aging, but Bramner would be the Minbari equivalant of 15 here. This chapter is very domestic and indulgent and a lot lighter than the previous one, but things get more serious in future chapters (honestly this entire fic is an indulgence haha). Apologies in advance for the high level of info dumping. I get into the 'making shit up about the Warrior Caste' part of the fic in this chapter. I started inventing a little bit of Fik as well since we get none in canon - some more notes about that at the end.

Branmer had expected his father to meet him, but instead he was directed to a small well-lit hall and told to wait. There were several benches lined up against the walls, one of which was occupied by a very young Warrior -really a child, with his bone crest in the process of binding- who was dabbing at a bloody nose with such a look of smug satisfaction on his face that Branmer was inclined to dislike him instantly.

Trying not to catch the boy’s attention, he slid his bags under the bench furthest away and sat down with his hands collected in his lap, wanting to look as poised and priest-like as possible. Unfortunately as soon as he did so the boy spotted him, and his gaze went straight to Branmer’s scraped knuckles. “What happened to you, shai'mir?”

“I-” Branmer stopped himself. “It’s nothing to you, zha'den.”

“It looks like you were in a fight.” The boy wrinkled his nose and winced. “That isn’t very priestly.”

“And I suppose your nose got that way because you walked into a wall,” Branmer snapped. He was both miserable and angry and the last thing he needed was some rude Warrior child passing judgement on him. In temple a junior acolyte would never have struck up conversation so boldly with a superior, in either age or rank.

“No, Sineval punched me. In the middle of our history class.” The boy grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Sech Rokesh was _furious_. We’re not supposed to fight outside of the sparring halls. Zakat says he’s going to be stuck on kitchen duty with the workers for a week. More of a punishment for the workers really.”

“Should I ask why this Sineval punched you?”

“He’s a Wind Sword, who knows why they do anything.”

Branmer raised his brows at the boy, who had the decency to look _slightly_ contrite.

“Well, alright. I may have been making fun. We had denn'bok this morning and he’s just so bad at it, he does this thing with his legs that… you know never mind, you have to see it.”

“Ah.” Branmer was familiar with denn'bok forms from watching his father practice, but his father was a denn'bok master who had at one time been rivals with Durhan. He tried to imagine what Sineval could be doing so wrong and drew a blank – having seen it done well it was difficult to imagine it done badly.

“So how did you hurt your hand?”

Branmer sighed, but he realised the boy was, in a rude way, trying to be friendly. “I hit another acolyte. It was thought I might benefit from some time with my father.”

“Is your father a physician here?” The boy perked up. “I may know him.”

“No, not a physician. He-” Branmer broke off as the door at the end of the hall opened, and as if summoned his father stepped through, smiling broadly. 

“Ier-ma! I hear you have been fighting and disturbing the delicate balance of your temple.”

“To my shame, va-mala.” Branmer stood up hastily and bowed.

Behind him there was a startled exhale of breath and he heard the boy mutter disbelievingly, _“Sech Kedrunn is your father?”_

That brought the boy to his father’s attention. Kedrunn sighed, “Fighting again, Neroon?”

Neroon stood beside Branmner now, dabbing his nose again and trying to look innocent. “It was entirely one sided, master. I didn’t raise a finger.”

“Really? And what precipitated this attack? Or am I to believe it was unprovoked?”

“Words were exchanged.”

“And would you care to tell me what those were?”

Neroon glanced at Branmer. “I am not sure if I should repeat them in front of one of our Religious brothers.”

“I see.” Kedrunn rolled his eyes and reached out to tap Neroon’s bloody nose. “One day you will cut yourself on that tongue of yours, zha'den. I take it you are waiting for Sech Aiaval?”

“Yes, master.”

“Hmmph. You know where to find me when she is finished with you.” Kedrunn turned to his son, and gestured towards the door he had entered by. “Come along. I’ve disposed of my duties for today, and we have a great deal to catch up on, ier-ma.”

When the door closed, Kedrunn shook his head. “Poor Sineval. He has many talents, but denn’bok is not among them. I should keep a closer eye on him. I doubt Neroon was the only one teasing. Just the most egregious.”

“They are your students?” Despite a recent growth spurt Branmer struggled to keep up with his father’s long stride, having to keep an undignified trot to stay a pace behind him.

“Yes, in one of my denn’bok classes.” Kedrunn smiled. “Neroon is something of a natural. I will probably recommend him to Durhan when he’s older - don’t tell him that though, he hardly needs to become any more conceited.”

“I doubt I will have the opportunity anyway.”

“Ah.” Kedrunn looked down at him guiltily. It was a strange expression on his father’s face. “About that. I meant to tell you earlier but this visit was… rather unexpected… Neroon is staying with me at the moment.”

“I don’t understand… his parents?”

“Dead,” Kedrunn said. “He does have family, of course, but his parents appointed me his guardian until he comes of age. There were… clan issues at play. A Star Rider cannot be raised by Fire Wings. It’s not acceptable.”

“But… I thought the care of orphaned children was the responsibility of the entire clan?”

“And it is” -Kedrunn spread his hands- “but he needs someone to represent his interests within the clan and provide him with support and guidance as he grows up. He can’t simply be passed from Warrior to Warrior like a stray gokk.”

Branmer frowned. “When did this happen?”

“A year ago.”

“A _year_?! And you never told me?!” Branmer stopped dead, staring at his father in disbelief. “Does mother know?”

“Of course she knows. And I didn’t see a need to tell you, it’s caste business after all, and you’ve never shown an interest in that before.” Kedrunn eyed him with some amusement, head cocked to one side. “You really do have your mother’s temper, nhe’Bhran.”

“I do not! I-”

Kedrunn’s mouth twitched, threatening a smile, and Branmer fell into silence. Finally, after some time staring at his feet, he managed to speak, “I apologise for my insolence, va-mala. I was merely surprised, but I should not have allowed my surprise to overcome me.”

“Apology accepted. Come along now, I’m starving. I hope bland temple food has not spoiled your appetite.”

*

From the outside the Warrior caste complex seemed to be a single, massive building, but in reality it was a network of interconnected courtyards, gardens and training facilities that were marked with the styles of many ages, some dating all the way back to before Valen. Once only Star Riders had lived here, but since Valen it had been the heart of the entire caste’s administration and Warriors from all five clans, even the reclusive Wind Swords, could be found here. The Shai Alyt lived and governed the caste from Tinarel, with the Clan Leaders and Elders at his side to represent their clans, and the Kaliv’nai to preserve the laws, traditions and rituals of the caste. But it was not just a place of governance and training, it was home to many, and outside of the north quarter more of the campus was dedicated to living than any other purpose.

His father lived in a staggered honeycomb of apartments at the south end of the complex, carved from a crystalline deposit overlooking the river. As a respected Sech with a family who might visit occasionally, Kedrunn’s apartment was fairly large, with several rooms branching off from a central room and wide, crystal cut doors opening onto a terrace. Sticking his head outside briefly, Branmer saw that on either side and below, were more terraces attached to the other apartments, all connected by steps leading down to a kind of communal area - a garden amphitheatre - that opened out onto the river banks and woods beyond. Everyone in this part of the complex was a Star Rider. A Warrior’s strength came from their clan, and even in Tinarel, where the clans mixed more than anywhere else on Minbar, it was still the custom for them to live together. The terraces were busy with mundane activity: children chasing up and down the steps while their parents drank sar'chai and talked; a few Warriors practicing their denn’bok forms together; and one Warrior spinning in elegant patterns, nil’bok flashing through the air. Branmer knew this meant she was one of two things: Kaliv’nai or one of the Shai Alyt’s nine Azari’den who served as his advisors and personal guards.

Branmer had always had a certain curiosity for the nil’bok. It had been forbidden by Valen outside of rituals, and though some Warriors still trained in its use, only the Kaliv’nai and Azari’den were allowed to carry one. For the Kaliv’nai it was part of their duty as carriers of the caste traditions; for the Azari a symbol of their responsibilities. And so, the old joke went, that they had a sword to fall on when the Shai Alyt demanded it.

His curiosity stemmed from the fact that his father had once carried a nil’bok when he had served as Azari’den before his marriage. It was a time in his father’s life that could only be glimpsed through the occasional offhand comment or momentary aside, as mysterious to Branmer as the deep secrets and high rituals of his own caste. It was hard for him to imagine his father, who was inside puttering about the kitchen area, banging cupboards and muttering about what to cook, standing gravely at the Shai Alyt's side, ready to give his life if necessary.

Further exploration of the apartment yielded a private training room, with all the weaponry you might expect; the spare bedroom he would -sigh- be sharing with Neroon; a large washroom; an office with an altar nook, which Branmer took note of for later; and his father’s bedroom - neat, except for a few sets of clothes tossed over a chair, all with the ornate embroidery and metalwork ornamentation that was favoured among the Warrior Caste. When his father had lived with them in Tuzenor his tastes had been more sober - plain black robes when he was not in his uniform - but clearly time among his own caste had altered his habits. Or recollected them. 

“Bran? Want to help me cook?” His father called from the main room, and Branmer hurried back to wash his hands. He thought that now his father would want to talk about why he had been sent here. Kedrunn, however, only seemed interested in weighing out exactly the right amount of spices and showing Branmer how to cut raalon properly. 

They were setting out bowls to eat when Neroon arrived, bounding into the room and startling Branmer with an impromptu somersault. 

“Very good, Neroon,” his father remarked placidly. “Sech Mikaan will be pleased you’ve been practising.”

Neroon grinned and then launched onto his hands, walking to and fro with his legs waving in the air. Kedrunn laughed and caught one of his legs, knocking him over. “Stop that and sit at the table like a civilised Minbari, you savage.”

“I have to make the most of it while I can do it,” Neroon protested. “Look at poor Vashaer. He had a growth spurt last year and now he can’t even do a forward roll. What’s the point of being tall if you can barely bend over. It’s pathetic.”

Kedrunn laughed as he passed Branmer a bowl of stew. “You shouldn’t worry so much about losing flexibility. You’ll get strength to make up for it. Think of your denn’bok exercises - you’ll finally be able to do those launches properly.”

“True." Neroon bit his lip. “But I will miss backflips.”

“What are the actual, practical applications of a backflip though, zha’den.”

Neroon shrugged, looking petulant. “They’re fun.”

“The short sightedness of youth. Now stop complaining and eat.” Kedrunn shook his head and turned his attention to Branmer. “I have been thinking. I am going to be busy with the Shai Alyt again tomorrow, but Neroon could keep you company and show you around.”

“I have classes in the morning tomorrow.” Neroon looked sly. “Unless you are saying I can skip them.”

“No. Branmer can join you.”

Branmer blinked. “Surely I’m too old. I cannot attend classes intended for children.”

Neroon stood up indignantly, “I’m not a child, I’m a Warrior! By our standards _you_ are still a child, since you hold no rank in the caste!”

“Excuse me?!” Branmer nearly inhaled a mouthful of stew into his lungs and had to fumble for water. “What did you just say!?”

His father burst out laughing, nearly roaring with amusement and slamming his fist on the table with delight. “He’s not wrong I’m afraid, Branmer. Of the two of you only Neroon can hold his ground with a denn’bok. He might not be able to take on a full grown Warrior, but I think he could lay you out.”

Neroon folded his arms and sat back, looking revoltingly smug. Branmer looked between him and his father, realizing he was defeated. He sighed, “I suppose I am here to try and learn something of Warrior Caste discipline. I should… respect your ways.”

“Good, it’s settled!” And then, more gently, “Don’t worry, it’s just for a day. Once the Shai Alyt is finished with me I will be able to attend to you properly.”

Just a day, Branmer thought, but will that be another day where we don't talk about what I did?

The rest of the meal passed peacefully enough, with Neroon too busy eating enough for a small army to interject much as Kedrunn pressed Branmer for news about Tuzenor and his old friends and acquaintances there. By the time they had finished the suns had chased each other below the horizon and the sky was painted the bruising blue of early evening. Kedrunn opened the door to the terrace, letting in the sweet scent of the night blooming rajin, accompanied by the chatter of Warriors enjoying the evening air on the terraces outside.

Neroon had scurried off to his room to fetch a tablet. He came back and flung himself violently onto the long settee, sprawling upside down with his head dangling over the edge.

“Sit properly, Neroon, you’ll make yourself dizzy.” Kedrunn looked up from making sar'chai. “Is that your reading for History?”

“Yes.” Neroon righted himself reluctantly and stole all of the settee cushions to arrange himself in a pile. “Sech Rokesh assigned us some sections of the Annals of Heshann.”

“Ah, the Meal Wars.” Kedrunn saw Branmer’s curious look and expanded. “Pre-Valen: there was a famine in the Asheal Basin after a series of crop failures. Set the Night Walkers and Star Riders squabbling over what little resources were left. Came to war when a shipment of grain from Yedor, intended to relieve the famine, was stolen on its way to Tinarel. Both sides accused the other.”

“But it was the Wind Swords in the end,” Neroon commented from deep within his pile of absconded cushions. “You can never trust a Wind Sword.”

“Now now, Neroon.” Kedrunn tilted his head. “It was over a thousand years ago. I think we can forgive them, can’t we?”

“If you insist, master.” Neroon did not sound convinced.

Kedrunn shook his head and pushed a cup of sar'chai to Branmer, the sour, citrus scent steaming in the air. “Your Sechs told me they’ve given you some assignments to work on while you were here.”

“Ah, yes.” Branmer scratched at the base of his crest. “I haven’t looked to see what they are yet. I was too preoccupied in transit. I’ll check through them now.”

It took him a few minutes of rummaging through his bags, just dumping clothes and various objects on the floor by his bed until he found his reader. He scurried back into the main room, reaching to snatch a cushion from Neroon’s collection as he passed and stumbled backwards yelping when pain exploded in his wrist. 

“Back off, priest” -a small hand retracted back into the cushions- “I’ve claimed these for the Star Rider clan.”

Branmer rubbed his wrist, examining the red mark that was developing into a bruise. “He hit me!”

Kedrunn sighed, “Neroon, do not attack Branmer.”

“I am not Neroon. I am Dravek of the family Kotz, Zhaden’na of the Star Riders and I parlay with no priest.”

“Actually Dravek had several alliances with the Religious Ca-” Kedrunn stopped himself and massaged the edges of his crest. “No, I’m not going to get drawn into this. Neroon, stop hitting Bran and give him a cushion. He’s part of our clan too, and under our protection.”

The cushions were silent for a few moments. Then finally, “Fine, he can have _one._ ”

A cushion was punted in Branmer’s direction. He picked it up and settled down as far away from ‘Dravek’ as possible, and began going through the work his Sechs had sent him. It was nothing unexpected, various readings on history and philosophy, a few written assignments and some practical exercises, including the observation of various rituals particular to the region. None of them mentioned what had happened with Hevann. He was half-grateful for that, and half-anxious. As if at any moment the nil'bok would fall and they would tell him he couldn't come back. That they couldn't have a savage for an acolyte.

He had moved to open the first of his readings, hoping to distract himself, when the pile of cushions erupted with a yowling battle cry. Branmer had half a second to react, during which time he screamed, dropped the reader and tried to raise his arms as a shield, shrieking, “Deh-f'hurst! Deh-f’hurst!”

And then Neroon slammed into him at full speed and they both crashed to the floor.

Winded somewhat, and extremely confused, Branmer struggled to throw Neroon off and escape, but one of his arms was trapped underneath him and Neroon had managed to twist the other into a very effective lock and was hitting Branmer repeatedly in the face with a pillow. Branmer wriggled desperately, trying to work one of his arms free. He was beginning to contemplate whether biting Neroon would be a dishonorable tactic, when suddenly Neroon was gone.

Well, not entirely gone.

He was dangling by the collar from Kedrunn’s fist, still holding the pillow. Kedrunn regarded Neroon with a puzzled frown, “What in Valen’s name has gotten into you, zha’den?”

Neroon was a picture of innocence. “Seka! Mhai zha is’ari zha is’haal seka!”

“Oh.” Kedrunn lowered Neroon to the floor. “I am sorry nhe’Nheroon, I forgot. But Branmer didn’t know it was just play. You scared him.”

“I was _not_ scared, just startled,” Branmer said quickly, sitting up and rubbing his jaw where Neroon’s fist had caught him. “Play?”

“It’s a game.” Kedrunn scratched at his crest absently. “Neroon attacks you and you chase him. It ends when he is caught. The only rules are no weapons and no biting. We usually play in the evening, but with everything going on I forgot.”

“You forget yesterday too,” Neroon mumbled grumpily. “My nhe’shae never forgot.”

Kedrunn’s expression softened into sadness. “I’m sorry, zha’den. We can play now, if Branmer doesn’t mind.”

Branmer, seeing an opportunity to avenge his earlier humiliation, scrambled to his feet. “I don’t mind. So ho-”

Anything else he was going to say was lost as Neroon lunged into Kedrunn’s legs and sent him stumbling backwards into the settee. Taking advantage of Kedrunn’s momentary unbalance, Neroon vaulted towards the open door of his room, but Branmer, recovering his surprise, flung himself over the couch and grappled Neroon to the ground before he could reach it.

His victory lasted all of five seconds before he was kicked in the face and his quarry escaped.

What followed next was a bizarre game of chase as he and Kedrunn attempted to catch Neroon while he bounced around the room like a gokk. He was remarkably adept at slithering and twisting out of every attempt to capture, at one point simply climbing up Kedrunn and launching himself over Branmer’s head. Finally it came to an end when they managed to tackle him together, bringing down their prey in front of the terrace doors. For good measure Branmer sat on him.

Neroon laughed happily and slapped the floor. “Alright, I surrender. That was fun!”

“Let him go, Branmer.” Kedrunn hauled himself up, dusting his robes. “I should tell the Shai Alyt that I was almost defeated by a child tonight -a child who used me as a climbing frame!- perhaps then he’ll be less inclined to drag me into his political affairs.”

“Va-mala!” Branmer felt slightly scandalised to hear his father talk about the Shai Alyt so cavalierly. His father just shrugged at him, entirely unbothered.

Neroon rolled to his feet. “When you can’t catch me anymore will you teach me nil’bok?”

“For the last time, no.” Kedrunn rolled his eyes and waved Neroon away. “Now, get back to your reading.”

With a great show of petulance and pouting Neroon picked up his reader and slouched back to the couch. The exhilaration of the chase seemed to have worn him out, because not long after they both looked up from their respective tasks to find him asleep, one arm dangling off the edge of the seat. Setting aside his work, Kedrunn scooped Neroon up onto his shoulder, “I’d better put this gokk to bed.”

He paused in the doorway, adjusting Neroon’s weight, “It seems like it was just yesterday that I used to carry you about like this. He’s almost too big now as well.”

Branmer watched for a moment as Kedrunn carried Neroon out, and then stood, putting away his reader and smoothing down his tunic. He went out onto the terrace and lit the lanterns there. It was quieter now: the Warriors practicing denn’bok had disappeared, as had all the children, and the Warrior with the nil’bok had traded it for a stringed instrument, which she rested in her lap, tuning.

When his father returned Branmer was sitting cross legged watching the moons, hands clasped in his lap to keep them from shaking. He felt his father pause, standing behind him for a moment, and then he crouched to sit beside him, folding one knee up to rest an arm across it. 

“Would you like to tell me yourself what happened,” Kedrunn said slowly, something reassuring in his tones, like he was quieting a startled animal, “or would you like to know what I have heard?” 

Ah, so we are going to talk about it.

Branmer twisted his hands, gripping the fingers tight, running his thumb over his scraped knuckles. “What have you heard?”

“I’ve heard that you and another acolyte had an argument, and at some point in this argument you grew so angry that you pushed him to the ground and hit him, and then continued to hit him, even when he begged you to stop.” Kedrunn’s voice was very soft. “Branmer, look at me. Why did you do this?”

Branmer sniffed and met his father’s eyes. “It was the only way I could get him to shut up. He just _wouldn’t_ shut up.”

“So you hit him? Branmer you can’t-” Kedrunn broke off, biting his lip. “What was he saying?”

He swallowed, “It was about you.”

Kedrunn cocked his head to one side. “Me?”

“Not in specifics, but in generalities. And this, too.” Branmer reached up, fingers trembling as they traced the sharp edges of his crest. Not really a proper Warrior’s crest, but just pointed and spiny enough that it stood out among the smoother styles of the Religious Caste. He’d wanted it that way when his crest had first been shaped, wanted to pay respect to his Warrior father and his Religious mother. But now, given time, he realised all he had done was mark himself out. “They’re always teasing me about having a Warrior father. Whatever is bad about me, is blamed on you. Whatever is good, the credit to va-sala.”

Kedrunn said nothing, just sighed quietly, as if he’d been expecting this.

“I’m sorry I hit him. But I’m not sorry because I hurt him. He deserved it. I’m sorry and I’m ashamed because I know it will reflect on you.” Branmer brought his knees up to his chest, hugging them. “I know that right now all the acolytes are saying that you are the reason I am such a brute. Poor Branmer, he can’t help it - it’s his warrior blood and you know what they are like. Nothing I do belongs to me, it is all because of my lineage.”

“Hmm.” Kedrunn leaned back on his elbows, tilting his head to look up at the stars. “You needn’t concern yourself with my honour, Bran, I can defend it well enough myself. Besides, I’m not concerned by the opinions of children who’ve never seen the world beyond their temple gates. If they’re lucky they’ll never have the misfortune of paying a _real_ insult to a warrior. We are quite good at keeping a grudge, and we can be very patient when it’s required. I am only worried about you.”

Branmer raised his head. “You’re not angry with me?”

“A little bit, but mostly no. More disappointed.” Kedrunn tilted his head at Branmer. “It was a stupid thing to do, and you’re not stupid, Branmer.”

“I wasn’t thinking at the time. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d thought.”

“That’s obvious.” Kedrunn snorted, and then gently, “Do your sechs know that this has been happening?”

“I think they guess,” Branmer said, resting his chin on his knees, “but I’ve never said anything. I thought if I ignored it, they would stop, and I thought, well, they never said or did anything that bad so I would just sound ridiculous. But then, that day, I’d just had enough.”

“Nhe’Bhran,” Kedrunn sat up, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and drawing Branmer into a one armed hug, “it may surprise you to know that I do understand some of what you are feeling. It wasn’t easy for me, living with the Religious Caste. I did it for your mother, but I was never truly comfortable or felt entirely welcome.”

“Is that why you left?”

“No, of course not. For the two of you I’d happily endure any discomfort, but the Shai Alyt needed me here, and no Warrior can refuse his Shai Alyt when he is asked to serve,” Kedrunn sighed. “I will admit to feeling relieved to be back among my brothers and sisters. Temple was stifling. If I could have both of you here with me, I’d be entirely content.”

Branmer scratched at the ground with his foot. “Sorry I didn’t come visit before.”

“We’re Minbari. Service comes before everything else.” Kedrunn shrugged and squeezed Branmer a little tighter. “Your trouble is that unlike me you can’t just run back to your caste, because they are your caste. Time will improve matters. Give it a year or two and your fellow acolytes will grow beyond their present stupidity.”

“Why are they so stupid now though?” Branmer grumbled. He didn’t want to contemplate another two years of putting up with Hevann’s snide remarks. “It’s not as if marriages across castes are that unusual.”

“But not the norm either. It’s not something we like to admit, but we Minbari are not very tolerant of differences. We like order. And each caste has its own conflicting idea of what that order should be.” Somewhere off in the trees a niyaan sang for its mate. Kedrunn tilted his head towards it, listening for a moment. “You are lucky in some respects. If either I or your mother had been Worker Caste you might have had more difficulties than a few obnoxious comments.”

“It’s not right!” Branmer snapped, feeling a sudden surge of anger in his chest. Like the rage he’d felt before he’d struck Hevann. “Valen expected us to be better than this! We should be!”

“What is expected of us, and what we are capable of are, sadly, not often the same,” Kedrunn exhaled, loosening his embrace. “You may find yourself subject to similar trouble here, only from the other direction. And I wouldn’t advise hitting a Warrior. They’ll hit back.”

“Neroon said you aren’t supposed to fight outside the sparring halls.”

“That only applies to Warriors who’ve yet to come of age, and with caveats. If someone hits them they’re allowed to strike back in self-defense. For the rest of us… it speaks to a lack of discipline, but it’s not forbidden.” Kedrunn smiled crookedly and lowered his voice to a whisper, “And don’t tell anyone I said this, but truthfully sometimes the best way for two Warriors to resolve a disagreement is to just let them beat each other senseless until the dispute is forgotten.”

“Have you ever?” Branmer couldn’t imagine his father, naturally phlegmatic, being angry enough to raise a challenge like that.

Kedrunn laughed. “I’ve never had a reason. I don’t have any enemies and fighting has always been more of a friendly exercise of skill than proving a point or winning for me.”

“I think” -Branmer traced circles in the dirt at his feet, frowning- “I think if I were a Warrior I would like to win. And I would resent losing.”

He got a sideways look from his father. “Yes, you’re like your mother in that respect. I’ve always felt she would have made a very intimidating Warrior.”

Branmer pictured his mother in Warrior dress and began to laugh but was cut off by a yawn. While they had been talking the sky had turned fully dark, joining the moons with thousands of stars. On the other terraces, and down below in the garden amphitheatre, lamps were being lit, glowing soft and blue and glancing off the crystalline buildings to form brilliant patterns of light. Shadowed figures were moving amidst the lights - collecting in small groups to talk, or sitting on the steps laughing. All around were happy murmurs, and among them, the sound of instruments being tuned and scraps of music being played. He was suddenly aware that some parts of their conversation must have been heard by their neighbours, and flushed.

“Time for you to turn in I think.” Kedrunn gave him a gentle nudge. “You’ve had a long day.”

“I’m not that ti-” Branmer yawned again. “Fine.”

As they were standing up, dusting off their clothes, footsteps approached and a Warrior emerged from the darkness. “Kedrunn,” she smiled, “are you going to join us tonight?”

“Once I have sent this one to bed.” Kedrunn clapped Branmer’s shoulder. “You remember my son?”

“I remember a baby, not this young priest,” she said, greeting Branmer fist to palm. “Alyt Shakaia. I served with your father for many years.”

Startled to realise he was addressing an Alyt, Branmer bowed hastily, hands trembling as they formed a triangle. “I’m only an acolyte, Alyt.”

“It’s all much the same to me, priest.” Shakaia tossed her head at the terrace doors, towards Neroon’s room. “How is the little terror?”

“In good form.” Kedrunn folded his arms, brow arching. “I think Nerzhan and Rashal were deliberately raising him to be as feral as possible.”

“Yes,” Shakaia laughed, lighting up with delight. “He would give Valen trouble, that one.”

Kedrunn prodded Branmer towards the door. “Go on, get yourself to bed. And try not to worry too much, nhe’Bhran, everything will be fine.”

Shakaia saluted Branmer again and then looped her arm through Kedrunn’s and dragged him down the steps towards the gathering below, calling out as she went, “Nee’zhalen, shai’mir!”

Feeling another yawn coming on, Branmer retreated inside and to his bedroom. He undressed in the dark, not wanting to disturb Neroon, who had rolled himself into a cocoon of blankets and was snuffling quietly as he slept. Branmer was not entirely sure what to make of him. He was certainly the most peculiar child he had ever met, but until now he had only really known children from his own caste. Or workers.

As he was climbing onto his own platform he was interrupted by a small, sleepy voice. Neroon had poked his head out from his cocoon. “Did you really keep hitting him even after he surrendered?”

“How did you-”

Neroon flapped a hand in the direction of the open window.

“Oh.” Branmer slid underneath the covers and lay back, hands clasped over his chest. “May I point out that I surrendered and _you_ kept hitting me.”

“That was a game.” Neroon sounded even grumpier when half asleep. He turned his back to Branmer and rearranged his blankets in jerky, uncoordinated motions. “You are stupid.”

“Yes, thank you for that eloquent assessment,” Branmer snapped, but he didn’t get a response. A few minutes later the snuffling resumed.

Sleep came less easily for Branmer who, despite his father’s instructions, was worrying about what he had done to Hevann. His stay here was indefinite, and he had no idea when and if he would be allowed to go back to temple. For someone who was accustomed to a delineated and orderly existence it was a perplexing state of uncertainty. But even with his anxieties he still couldn’t bring himself to be entirely sorry about hitting Hevann. Seeing the blood blossom across his face had been one of the most satisfying moments of Branmer’s entire life. He had not been able to fully admit that to his father earlier, but he could admit it to himself now, lying in the dark, running his fingers over his scraped knuckles and listening to the Warriors singing outside.

He had enjoyed the fight.

But more than anything, more than winning, he had enjoyed seeing his opponent defeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Branmer meets some more feral children and also encounters a couple of potential candidates to be next Shai Alyt. A bad thing happens. 
> 
> So three headcanons I have for Fik is that it features a fair amount of lenition, it doesn’t use gendered pronouns, and that using formal vs informal address is very important. Informal is used for friends, family, lovers, children, and anyone with a lower rank than you. Formal address is used when speaking to your superiors, unfamiliar warriors (prior to determining rank and status, which is sometimes not immediately clear so best to be safe), groups, and by children addressing unrelated adults. Also warriors like to use informal address when speaking to Minbari outside their caste, regardless of rank or lack of familial association. Yes, the other castes think this is extremely rude and the warriors know they think it is rude and that is why they do it. The other castes put up with this because they’ve been putting up with the warrior caste being massive dickbags for thousands of years so it’s kinda like ‘yeah. this is what they’re like /shrug/ what can you do.’ Also I kinda liked the idea that Adronato, Fik and Lenn’ah all feature a fair amount of borrowing and loan words from each other, and that some of the war themed words in Adronato originate from Fik.


	3. The Rivals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another absurdly long chapter. I'm going to to try and keep the chapter lengths down in the future but I suspect chapter 4 is going to be a big boy too.

Soft muttering raised Branmer to the surface of his dreams and he emerged gradually, reality filtering through in unwelcome fragments. Slowly, unwillingly, he rolled over and blinked sleepily at the source of the noise.

Neroon was kneeling in front of the open window, a candle before him; one hand clutching something to his chest, the other outstretched towards the flame. He was whispering in Fik, only loud enough that Branmer could tell it was litany but not the words themselves. His attention was fixed wholly on the candle and he seemed to be in another place entirely, out of time with his surroundings. As his litany reached an end he took a breath, steeling himself, and plunged his hand into the flame, holding it there.

He only lasted a few seconds before he whipped his hand back, whimpering and bending his body around it. The second time he reached out, he did so more slowly, closing his eyes and flinching as his hand approached the wick.

Branmer wondered at the objective. If it was a Warrior Caste ritual, then it was not one that he was familiar with.

He drew back beneath his covers, intending to catch a few minutes more sleep, but Neroon sensed the movement and shot to his feet, knocking over the candle and fumbling to stuff something under his sleeping platform. He smoothed his uniform, sneering at Branmer. “Do you always wake up this late, priest? You’d better hurry up, we’re going to be late.”

*

Branmer followed Neroon to meet his classmates; a small group of young Warriors who were lounging about one of the courtyards waiting for classes to begin. One of them was practicing a handstand while several others threw pebbles at her. She spotted Neroon and dropped to her feet, picking up a handful of gravel and throwing it at her tormentors, who scattered, laughing. 

“You are late, Neroon.” She folded her arms. There was war paint on her face, not the full markings of an adult, but enough to show that she had fulfilled the first ascension rites of the Fire Wing clan. Behind her the group had reformed, staring at Branmer with rude curiosity.

“I was taking care of our guest, Aiashon.” Neroon gestured to Branmer. “This is Sech Kedrunn’s son Branmer. He was sent here because he has been fighting in temple and causing disorder.”

“Zha’den!” Branmer hissed, feeling his face go hot. “Why would you tell them that?!”

“What?” Neroon shrugged. “They probably already know anyway.”

“If you want any tips on fighting, we’re more than happy to oblige, shai’mir,” Aaishon said, with a pointed smile. 

Neroon spotted another classmate slinking out from behind the larger group. “Sineval! You got out of punishment then?”

Sineval stepped forward, toeing the ground nervously with one foot and flashing Branmer a shy smile before speaking softly. “Sech Rokesh felt an apology would suffice. I am sorry for hitting you, Neroon, you did not deserve it.”

“Oh, I think I did. I’m sorry I teased you, Sineval. It was wrong of me.” Neroon looked at his feet contritely for a moment and then his head snapped up again, grinning brightly at his fellows. “I bet none of you ever believed you’d hear me say that!”

“I still don’t believe it,” Aiashon said.

“Are you suggesting Neroon is lying?” Another classmate, a broad shouldered boy who already stood a head taller than his peers, spoke up. “That’s a serious charge, Aiashon.”

“I am not saying he is lying, Vashaer. You can say something you don’t entirely mean without lying.”

Vashaer frowned. He had a very grave, thoughtful face. “Semantic wrangling is best left to the Religious Caste. No offence, shai’mir.”

“None taken,” Branmer said. “Should we move? I don’t want to make you all late.”

“And get another punishment exercise from Sech Sekhat,” someone muttered, and that was enough to set them all scrambling out of the courtyard.

Neroon’s class totalled ten students, who introduced themselves as they led him to their first class. There were two other Star Riders, Rathael and Valzhan, but the rest were from other clans: Deniri, another Fire Wing; Dushenn and Avahel, of the Night Walkers; and Vashaer and Kelvaer, of the Moon Shields. Sineval was the only Wind Sword, but seemed to have found a companion in Valzhan - the two of them dropping to the back of the group to whisper excitedly about something.

Branmer found himself at the centre of the group - a tall white tree in a sea of black grass- and struggling much of the time to understand what was going on. He spoke Fik fluently, but that was standard Fik and many of the young Warriors dropped into strange clan dialects as they chattered, making no attempt to alter their speech for him. He could keep track of the Star Riders, for the most part, but when it came to the Night Walkers he was completely lost - sometimes it didn’t even sound like they were speaking Fik at all. 

He said as much to Neroon, who just laughed, “It’s plains speak. It’s a form of Fik.”

“And you understand it?” Branmer asked, stepping to the side as they passed another milling group of trainees.

“Of course.” Neroon was puzzled. “It’s not hard. And Night Walkers serve on all our ships. I have to be able to understand them.”

“Wouldn’t it be simpler if they just spoke standard?” And Branmer immediately knew he had said the wrong thing when Dushenn and Avahel turned around and glared at him.

“It’s about respect, stupid.” Neroon rolled his eyes. “Of course your caste doesn’t know anything about that.”

“It’s really not so different from Fik,” Vashaer interrupted. “If you pay attention and listen you will get the hang of it. We all had to learn, didn’t we, Neroon?”

Neroon made a face that suggested he had been born understanding all the caste dialects perfectly and Branmer resisted the urge to stick out a foot and trip him. He was saved from further temptations by their arrival at Sekhat’s class.

Sech Sekhat was a cheerful woman with a crest sharp enough to cut throats who taught strategy and tactics. Upon seeing Branmer she inquired after several of his masters in Tuzenor, smiling with particular fondness when she heard the Sech Naviri’s broken arm had finally healed. 

“You’re not one of her students, are you?” Sekhat tilted her head. “I think she would have mentioned if you were.”

“No.” Branmer admitted. “My father taught me the basics of self defense but I never attended any of the classes offered in my temple.”

“It’s quite an honour to be taught by one of the Chudomo. You should take advantage of it, while she is still serving in Tuzenor.” There was something of a gentle reprimand behind her words. “I suppose tactics were not part of your studies either?”

“No, master.” Branmer stared at the floor. “It is not exactly necessary to a priest. I was studying theology, history and philosophy in Tuzenor. I would have been allowed to begin assisting with some of the low rituals of my order this cycle if I weren’t.. if...well.”

Sekhat laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, squeezing. “History is full of battles. Surely you must have read something of those? They can provide useful examples. You may find yourself less ill equipped than you think.”

“I will do my best, master.” But he was uneasy. The only war he had ever studied had been the Great War, and that had been more in the context of Valen’s societal reform, not tactics.

She smiled and turned away from him, clapping her hands. “Today we are going to do some battle simulations. I’m going to run you against the computer first, and then I’ll pit you against each other. Since we have an uneven number, I will be joining you in the simulations today.”

“But master, that’s not fair!” Aiashon despaired. “You always win!”

“You can learn more from a defeat than a victory, Aiashon.” Sekhat folded her arms. “Now get to your places, zha’den. You have fleets to command.”

Branmer hesitated, “Master, I’ve never used a-”

“Don’t worry. You’ll adjust.” She smiled, and lowered her voice. “That’s why we’re starting with the computer. Give you a little time before I throw you to these madagons.”

He sighed, and followed the others to find a console. They were set on a lower level from the rest of the room, allowing any sech observing to walk above their students and call out instructions. Once he was inside a screen sprang up all around him, throwing him into a dark vista of stars - an imitation of the holographic deck of a Sharlin warcruiser. A second holographic display emerged, this time showing logistical information and a breakdown of his forces. They had begun arriving all around him, dropping out of hyperspace to form up on all sides - cruisers, frigates, fighters; the full complement of a Minbari war fleet. 

Branmer turned, slowly, feeling very very small in the midst of so much firepower, and that was when he saw her. She was hanging shining and silver behind the fleet, accompanied by her moons and orbital defense stations. 

Minbar.

She looked so small and fragile, like the gentlest tap from an asteroid could send her tumbling out of her orbit. A strange surge of affection welled up in his chest and without really thinking he signaled some of his cruisers to drop back and bolster the orbital defenses. He was suddenly terrified of losing. He knew it wasn’t real. But he couldn’t lose.

“Remember to take a moment to assess your assets before you deploy. Don’t rush in without thinking.” Sekhat stalked past above. “This is a defensive simulation. I don’t think I need to tell any of you what the objective is. Begin.”

Branmer sent out a couple of scout ships forward, scanning for the first spikes of a jumpgate opening. Nothing. He wondered if perhaps the enemy had already jumped into Minbari space and their scanners simply hadn’t detected them yet. 

Tentatively he moved some of his capital ships forward, expanding the sphere around Minbar, and as soon as he did dozens of jump points opened up all around. One was so close it caught a frigate in its radius and it exploded in a blaze, throwing a group of his fighters into disarray as they dodged debris. Other larger ships couldn't dodge as easily, and a Sharlin took a strike across the nose, disrupting its forward weapons array. 

Great start, he groaned, but there was no time to despair. There was so much to track - he had multiple firefights on different sides of the planet and a hurtling sense that he was fast losing control. He needed to focus.

None of the scans had identified the origin of the ships, so he was dealing with an unknown enemy. But he _was_ able to scan them at least, and weapons lock wasn’t a problem, so he concluded they couldn’t be a more advanced species. He decided to focus on their capital ships, redirecting his fighters to disable their weapons arrays, taking advantage of their superior maneuverability, and then moving his frigates and cruisers in to destroy them. 

He was making advances, but too many enemy ships were punching through his main lines. He had a moment of violent panic when an enemy detachment broke through and advanced on Minbar, but he remembered the cruisers he had kept back and within minutes they were breaking up under the fire of a Sharlin cruiser’s forward canons.

With the cruisers and the orbital defense system, Branmer realised he could afford to let some of the enemy through, using his main force as a filter to prevent the rear from being overwhelmed. Once behind his main force any enemy ships would be trapped between the main force and the rear defenses, isolated and unable to act effectively. Then his rear cruisers and orbitals could pick them off at ease.

He knew it was a risk, it could backfire if too many got through, or one of them managed to make a lucky strike, but if it worked it would be worth it.

And it worked.

Within what felt like moments the enemy was thinning out, and Branmer could feel the battle turning in his favour. He was mopping up the last remnants of their forces, sweeping the debris with his scanners, when a second wave of jump points opened.

A chill swept him from head to toe. He could barely hear the system warnings over the rush of his own blood, his own breathing. There were too many of them and they were everywhere. He didn't have enough ships left to strike back effectively, even with the orbitals.

There was no way he could win.

He couldn’t retreat, there was only Minbar and the final defenses behind him, he couldn’t abandon Minbar, he... he remembered suddenly how the first wave had arrived, how that frigate had been caught in the jump point and the violence of its end, and he realised there was something he could do. He had no idea if it would work, but he could try. 

Breathing fast, his whole body jangling with chills, he ordered some of his remaining ships to drop back, and ordered the remainder to fly as close to the enemy as possible, using what was left of his fighters to provide cover. And then he ordered them to jump to hyperspace.

The effect was instantaneous and devastating. His own flag ship was caught in the first chain of explosions, torn apart by its own jump point as it intersected with an enemy cruiser. A notification flashed up in the simulation, letting him know that his ship had been destroyed and he was dead, but he didn’t care.

All around him, all around Minbar, his enemy blazed and shattered in a brilliant display of violent brightness. It was the most beautiful and terrible thing he had ever seen.

“An interesting choice, priest. I admire your sense of self-sacrifice.” Sekhat’s voice came from the darkness above. “You would make the Blood Songs proud.”

Branmer grinned, watching as the AI took over and the surviving enemy ships - only a few stragglers who had been at the fringes of the conflict - were picked off by his rear guard. He had won. He had lost his flagship. He had died. But it didn’t matter.

Because he had won. And Minbar, shining and silver and perfect in the dark void of space, was safe.

The simulation came to an end as the last enemy ship was destroyed. Everything went dark. Figuring he had a few minutes before the next simulation began, and finding his legs were still shaking from fear or excitement or… he had no idea what, he sat down and settled into a meditative pose. When the next simulation began he was still sitting.

Four simulations and four victories later, he stood up again. The screens dropped away, the darkness lifted, and he stepped up and out of the recess feeling buoyant. His head was still full of ships and stars and stratagems. He could spend all day in battle simulations and never tire.

Neroon bounced up to him, beaming brightly. “How did you do? I won all of mine!”

Branmer just shrugged and smiled. He could see a few less happy faces emerging from the below and he didn’t want to boast, “I did fine.”

“You are so boring.” Neroon rolled his eyes and bounded after Aiashon to quiz her.

“Before you go to your next class,” Sekhat said as they were leaving, “I noticed that only four of you remembered to use the orbital defense system during your first simulation. I did say assess _all_ your assets before beginning.”

There were muffled groans from several in the group, but Aiashon and Neroon both looked smug. 

Branmer hung back as the rest left, drawing raised brows from Sekhat. “Something I can help you with, priest?”

“Are there any texts you could recommend if I wanted to learn more about tactics?” He hugged his arms to his chest as Sekhat scrutinized him.

Sekhat’s brows went up even higher but she smiled. “You could do worse than starting with Sharlin’s Treatise on War. It provides an excellent grounding in tactics and strategy.”

“Didn’t Sharlin live before we became space faring?”

“It’s the ideas that matter, not the tools,” Sekhat said. “Start with Sharlin and I will collect a list of reading for you” -she cocked her head to one side- “if you are serious?”

He bit his lip. “I think I am.”

“Good.” Sekhat straightened. “Run along now, priest.”

They were waiting for him outside, scuffling excitedly with each other and comparing notes on their simulations. Battle games had put them in a lively mood and Branmer found himself being grabbed by Aiashon and Neroon and dragged along in the centre of the group. “Come on,” Neroon said. “We only have two more classes.”

Young Warriors did not move between their classes in the same orderly fashion as temple acolytes. Instead they inhabited the form of a small, noisy mob, talking and pushing and scuffling as they wandered the crystal corridors of the lyceum, encountering other small cheerful mobs of student Warriors as they went and stopping to tussle briefly with them. 

The only time they showed any discipline was when they encountered senior Warriors. Then the entire group would disperse into two columns, backs pressed against the corridor walls, heads bows and fists pressed to palms in salute. Sometimes the passing Warriors would acknowledge them with a little nod, but often enough they simply walked by as if the neat little rows of saluting students weren’t even there. There was though, one occasion, when more notice was taken than usual.

They had finished classes for the day and an argument had broken out among the zha’den over where they should take Branmer next.

“If we go to the Atrium we can get something to eat as well!” Rathael was arguing. “I'm hungry! Aren’t you hungry?”

“If du hungry I’ve still got my piece.” Dushenn pulled a stuffed pastry out of her pocket and held it out to Rathael.

Rathael eyed it warily. “Uh, thank you, Dushenn, but I’d like to eat something that doesn’t taste like suffering.”

Dushenn shrugged and took a bite out of the pastry, ignoring the disgusted looks from her friends. Branmer guessed from the colour of the filling that it was probably stuffed with fermented ulabon paste. 

“If we take him to the sparring halls first we can show our denn’bok training.” Neroon wrinkled his nose at Dushenn’s snack. “We’ve already had our mid-morning prayer break - you can’t be hungry already.”

“Unlike you I actually have growing to do.” Ratheal tossed her head. “You should try it some time.”

“I am not short.” Neroon’s head snapped back and forth, trying to find an ally. “I am no-!”

“Alyt Verann!” Someone yelped, and everyone immediately cleared the corridor. Branmer, squeezed against the wall between Neroon and Aiashon, was curious. He had heard of Alyt Verann; he was much talked of in temple, but not for good reasons.

The Aylt had a reputation for openly despising the Religious Caste, and had been locked for years into a long political battle with their Elders (and even, rumour had it, members of the Grey Council) over the allocation of resources between castes. The Warrior Caste, he felt, were being overlooked in favour of Religious Caste projects; repairs and renovations to Warrior Caste ships subject to dangerous delays as a result. Branmer had some degree of sympathy for the Alyt’s cause and had heard his father make similar grumbles in the past, but the Religious Elders had a point too: after a thousand years of peace, a peace to which there seemed no end, what need was there for the Warrior Caste anyway? Their ships could wait. 

Now here he was, this resolute enemy of the religious caste, stalking down the corridor in full armour, looking like he was about to charge at any moment. He was everything you might expect from a Warrior; tall and broad, with a fierce, sharp face made for frowning. And then he looked up and his eyes, dark and clever, fell on Branmer.

Ah, Branmer thought, this is how I die. 

“You’re a long way from temple, little priest. Are you lost?” Verann said, in a voice that was somehow soft and biting all at once.

Branmer winced and looked about, seeing instantly that he would get no help from his young companions. Across from him Sineval looked like he was about to throw up. Next to him Neroon closed his eyes, grimacing. Aiashon seemed to have been turned to stone. 

“I’m visiting my father, Alyt,” he said, bowing and hoping that Verann wouldn’t see it as an insult that he did not salute him like a Warrior. “These zha’den were kind enough to let me follow them for the day, to learn more about the traditions of my father’s caste.”

Verann stepped closer, eyes narrowing to slits as he inspected him. “Your father is a Warrior? Wh-oh, you must be Kedrunn’s boy, yes?”

“Yes, Alyt. That is correct.”

And just like that Verann’s whole demeanor changed. His shoulders relaxed and he smiled, just slightly, but it altered his face entirely. There was still something sharp and fierce about him, but there was a warmth beneath that flooded through now. “Yes, I should have marked that face anywhere. You look very like him. How is your mother?”

Branmer did his best not to show surprise that his mother knew Verann. It was certainly something she had never mentioned. “She is well, Alyt.”

That small twitch of a smile again. “There was a time when she and I were rivals.”

This only deepened his confusion. “Rivals, Alyt? For what?”

For some reason this made Verann laugh. Several members of the class jumped at the noise. Sineval’s mouth fell open and he looked on in undisguised amazement. Verann patted Branmer’s shoulder, knocking him into Neroon with thoughtless strength. “Give her my regards when you see her, shai’mir. And tell her I will visit when next I’m in Tuzanor.”

And then it was over and Verann was stalking away, his heavy steps fading down the corridor.

Neroon let out a wheezing breath. “I thought you were dead!”

Branmer looked around at the class, who were all in varying stages of anxious collapse. “He seemed fearsome at first, but he wasn’t so bad.”

“Not so bad?” It was Vashaer, looking graver than death. “He threw another Alyt down a flight of stairs last cycle. He’s a nightmare. And he’s probably going to be the next Shai Alyt when Lavek dies."

“Everyone’s a little bit afraid of him. I’ve heard even the Satais won’t cross him.”

Branmer found that deeply difficult to believe.

“The only person who isn’t afraid of him is Sech Rokesh,” Aiashon paused, “and maybe your father.”

There were nods of agreement as they resumed moving and spilled out into a large empty courtyard, scattering a flock of niyaan that had been sleeping in the ornamental trees. They flew up onto the crystal balustrades above, shrieking unhappily.

“Once he and Rokesh got into an argument and he challenged Rokesh to a fight, but Rokesh just laughed,” Sinoval said. “Laughed right in his face. I heard Verann was so angry it took four of the Shai Alyt’s guard to pull him away.”

“Surely though, it is very disrespectful for a Sech to behave towards an Alyt in such a way?” 

Aiashon snorted disbelievingly, “You are right, Neroon. He really is stupid!”

“I told you,” Neroon said, emanating smugness from every infuriating pore. “You will have more luck asking what he doesn’t know. I have never met anyone so stupid and that includes your little sister. She can’t even talk yet.”

You cannot hit him, Branmer decided, he is much smaller than you. “Alright, if you’re done gloating over how stupid I am - what am I missing?”

“Rokesh is an Alyt as well. They both served as the Shai Alyt’s Azari.” Aiashon spread her arms in exasperation, “He doesn’t use his rank while he serves as Sech. It is not… ah, done? But he is equal to Verann all the same.”

“I think I understand,” Branmer said, although he was not sure he did. The subtleties of Warrior Caste rank differentiation were notoriously difficult for outsiders to comprehend and one Alyt was not quite the same as the next, but he did understand that if Rokesh had served as Azari then he was certainly very important. “You said that Verann will probably be Shai Alyt, but he cannot be the only candidate - I thought there was usually one from each clan?”

“That’s true,” Aiashon nodded, “but it will still probably be Verann.”

“I hope it will be a Moon Shield after Lavek. We make good Shai Alyts,” Kelvaer remarked, speaking for the first time, and rolling his eyes when the rest of the class, except Vashaer, glared at him. “Oh don’t look like that. You all know it’s true.”

“What about Shai Alyt Ezarin, then?” Neroon shoved him. “He didn’t even last a month!”

“Ezarin?” Kelvaer shoved back absently. “Oh! He’s the one who got mauled by an ingata while he was out hunting, isn't he?”

“I remember reading that. He took hours to die but he kept thanking the creature and saying it had saved him from ‘a more desperate and lingering misery’,” Aiashon grimaced. “Wouldn’t let them kill it.”

“What did he mean by that?” Branmer looked between them all. “Was he ill?”

“No, but he was Shai Alyt.” A warm voice, rippling with amusement, answered. Branmer turned, stumbling, to find another Warrior watching them from a few paces away, framed by a crystal arch. He was out of uniform and dressed as if he were attending an important celebration at some alien royal court; splendid in a deep, dark blue tunic with split sleeves so long they threatened to brush the ground. It seemed to shimmer in the reflecting light of the arch and on closer scrutiny Branmer could make out faint patterns embroidered in fine silver thread. They looked almost like moons. Around him the zha’den were lunging forward, mobbing the newcomer in a manner very like subjects supplicating a monarch.

“Sech Rokesh!” Aiashon was the first to reach him. “I won all of my battle sims today!”

“Is that so? Well done, zha’den.” Rokesh flicked her crest cheerfully, and was promptly inundated with a chorus of voices demanding his attention. He was entirely the opposite of Verann - not a tall, brooding Warrior, but slender and open faced, and blazing with good nature. Branmer had no difficulty imagining him laughing in the face of any challenge. “One at a time! I can’t hear you when you talk over each other. Did something happen? You seem quite flighty today.”

“We met Alyt Verann,” Vashaer said. “He stopped to talk to Branmer.”

“Ah! Well that explains it. What else could inspire such fear in the hearts of young Warriors? He makes the rest of us redundant. Next time there’s a war we should just send Verann. The enemy would surrender immediately.” Rokesh turned the full light of his gaze on Branmer, who found himself transfixed. “And you Branmer? He didn’t frighten you too badly did he?”

Branmer shook himself out of his stupor. “I, um, he was very polite, actually, master.”

Rokesh tilted his head to the side, and Branmer’s stomach seemed to tilt with it. “Well, of course,” Rokesh said. “You are Sech Kedrunn’s son, after all. And if there is one ray of sun that can melt that icy tundra Verann calls a soul, it’s Kedrunn.”

Branmer was not sure what to make of that. Or what to make of Rokesh either. He was feeling strangely off balance. He was grateful when Rokesh’s attention was snatched away from him and back to his noisy students. “Now, Sineval! Neroon! Are you at peace again?”

They both shuffled, looking extremely embarrassed and chorused together, “Yes, master. Sorry, master.”

“Good, that’s well.” Rokesh nodded. “You are Warriors, you should be friends. If you want to squabble, do it with the Religious Caste. They’re good fun for that, aren’t they, Branmer?”

Branmer nodded numbly. Being around Rokesh seemed to make speaking difficult. He prayed silently that whatever was wrong with him was not permanent. 

“Are we allowed to squabble with the Worker Caste, master?” Aaishon asked.

“No, you should always be kind to the Workers. Our entire society would crumble without them. The Religious Caste on the other hand” -Rokesh waved a hand- “No offense, Branmer, but your caste serves no practical purpose.”

Branmer sputtered slightly, “There is more to life than practicals.”

“True enough.” Rokesh grinned and Branmer’s stomach tumbled over again. “Come, I’m only teasing you. I have immense respect for all that ringing bells and chanting you do.”

“Stop tormenting that poor priest, zha’aia.” Sekhat appeared suddenly, wandering through the same archway Rokesh had entered by and taking hold of his arm. Rokesh turned into her touch, directing a look of rapt affection at her as she continued. “He doesn’t know you well enough to realise you never mean anything you say.”

“See!” Aiashon exploded suddenly, rounding on Vashaer, who backed away, blinking rapidly. “You can say something you don’t mean without lying! Or do you think Sech Rokesh is a liar?”

“I hope not,” Roskesh remarked dryly, then brightened, “but since we have one of our Religious brothers present, perhaps he has an answer to this vital moral dilemma. Branmer, how would you define a lie?”

“I.. um..I?” This was a nightmare. Branmer wanted to say something intelligent but his brain had gone completely blank. He was not sure he could say his own name.

“Oh, don’t bother with him,” Neroon said airly, waving a dismissive hand. “He’s too stupid to be of any help. Sech Kedrunn must be very ashamed, having such a stupid son.”

Rokesh’s good humour dropped away. “Neroon! That’s an appalling thing to say.”

“But he is stupid! He-” Neroon saw Rokesh’s expression, mirrored on Sekhat, and finished on a mumble, “-sorry.”

“Hmm.” Rokesh’s eyes remained narrowed on Neroon.

“Perhaps it’s time we all moved along.” Sekhat squeezed Rokesh’s arm. “Where were you all headed?”

“Oh” -Vashaer scratched his crest- “we were supposed to be showing Branmer around, but we got distracted.”

“We were going to the Atrium,” Rathael interjected triumphantly. 

“Perhaps we can walk with you as far as the Atrium then,” Sekhat said, and began leading Rokesh out of the courtyard, “and assist you in showing this young priest our home.”

Rathael let out a victorious cry and the whole group trotted after Sekhat and Rokesh, leaving Neroon and Branmer behind. Some of the niyaan took that as a sign of their soon ascendency, and fluttered down into the trees, waiting for the stragglers to leave.

Neroon poked Branmer in the stomach. “Are you alright? You look like you’ve run to Tuzenor and back.”

“I’m fine.” Branmer slapped his hand away.

“If you insist.” Neroon made an extremely rude gesture with his left hand and scampered after the group. “Just stop being so strange. I don’t need to get in any more trouble with Rokesh for you.”

“That was you trying to help?” Branmer hissed. Unbelievable. Even when he was trying to do a good turn he was obnoxious. What had his parents been like to produce this unholy spawn?

“Come on, priest. You’re missing your tour.”

They caught up as the group exited into a sprawling green space at the centre of the complex. Local flora and fauna of all kinds grew in a disorderly, colourful riot around them, intersected by pools and paths carved from the base crystal. Strange bell-like flowers grew in abundance everywhere, even from the cracks in the walk. Branmer knew that come nightfall they would open up to cast a haunting blue glow over everything, bouncing and glimmering on the crystal formations. He had read about this place - the Moon Pools. It had been a favourite retreat of Rashok, the first Shai Alyt, and it was famous beyond Tinarel as a place of peace and beauty. 

“That’s the Atrium. It’s one of the oldest buildings in Tinarel. Predates Valen _and_ our time as a space faring species,” Rokesh pointed to a building just visible rising over the top of a thick line of trees, showing a glass roof buttressed by crystal arches. “It was built for an ancient Star Rider chief. Back then it was used as a living space; Warriors would sleep, and eat, and train all under that one roof.”

It sounded even worse than sharing a room with Neroon.

Rokesh caught his look and laughed, “Yes, it doesn’t appeal to me either. One of the most trying aspects of serving as Azari’den.”

“You can’t see it here but there’s a kind of tower at the back that juts over the Arel cliffs and overlooks the lower city.” Sekhat explained, seeing Branmer’s confusion. “That’s where the Shai Alyt lives. It’s the oldest part of the Atrium - built over the earliest fortifications laid here - and it’s full of secret passages dug down into the crystal. They say there is a passage running all the way from the top of the Atrium down to the bottom of the cliffs that was used as an escape during the Fili’shah.”

“And when was the Fili’shah?” Rashok tilted his head towards his students. “Can any of you remember? No, Neroon, someone who isn’t a Star Rider. I can hardly be expected to be impressed by one of the Fi’Sularae remembering an event they refuse to forget.”

“It was during the Meal Wars.” Sineval piped up, looking miserable, “The Star Riders invited my clan for peace talks here and we waited until the Star Riders were sleeping and murdered them as they slept.”

“You say we, but you’re not responsible for something your clan did over a thousand years ago, Sineval.”

“My honour is the honour of my clan.” Sineval replied stiffly. “If they act dishonorably then that dishonour is mine too. The Religious Caste say that we are reborn into every generation, if that’s true then don’t we carry the crimes of our past selves with us?”

“But you cannot know what your previous lives were. You might have easily been Worker Caste, or even Religious,” Branmer interrupted. “The purpose of our reincarnation is not punishment or absolution, but to understand ourselves and the universe. Your goal should be enlightenment, not chastisement.”

“Ah, he can speak!” Rokesh raised his hands in triumph. “Well, there you have it! You can’t argue with a priest on these matters, Sineval.”

Branmer stuttered, “I-I am only an acolyte, master.”

“There’s a difference?”

Sekhat laughed, “Oh, leave him alone, Rokesh.”

“Masters,” Vashaer said suddenly, “what is that?”

He was pointing up, and up, into the sky. Branmer had to shield his face from the glare of the sun to see it - dozens of dust tails plummeting through the azure haze, flaring brightly as they fell. And more following them, trailing fire across the sky. 

Others were stopping to look, peering upwards at the blazing lines.

“Comets?” Neroon asked in a small voice.

But Branmer could see from Sekhat and Rokesh that this was something more than a natural event. Sekhat traced their path with her hand, her voice trembling with urgency, “Rokesh, look at that trajectory.”

Calculations crossed Rokesh’s face and Branmer saw the moment he realised; how his eyes widened and his jaw went tight and he exhaled in one horrified breath, “The Valeria Orbital.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats to Branmer, he beat some kids in a battle simulation and then got his head turned by some fancy clothes. He's doing great.
> 
> Also I hate writing battle scenes and I realised during the course of this chapter that I have condemned myself to writing more. Yeah, I didn't think of that when I decided I was gonna write a fic about the warrior caste. Hello darkness my old friend.


	4. Morreal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah during the writing of this chapter I finally realized I've been consistently spelling Branmer's name wrong/toots clown horn sadly/. There is a character's name that is intentionally spelt wrong though: Deronn/Deeron because it just doesn't sound like Deeron when she says it in the episode and it annoyed me. Also when a certain character makes his first appearance please imagine 'Bad to the Bone' playing in the background. Thank you.

Pieces of the Valeria-On-High Orbital continued to enter the atmosphere and rain down on Minbar throughout the afternoon; their slow, trailing arcs threading the sky, interrupted only by various craft flying overhead, heading south towards the Great Plains. Branmer and Neroon watched them from the terrace, sitting cross legged with sar'chai growing cold in their hands. Below on the other terraces the mood had transformed from the lazy ease of yesterday into moody stillness. Earlier Neroon had insisted they light a little oil lamp that sat in a nook by the door, getting Branmer to lift him up so he could reach.

“Surely I can do it for you,” Branmer had said.

“No,” Neroon snapped, “A Warrior must light it because it is for our dead. You interfere enough with our customs, do not interfere with this.”

After that they hadn’t spoken a word to each other, sitting in silence as the lamp sputtered and smoked, filling the air with a sickly sweet smell. Several hushed conversations were going on below, and though he tried hard not to listen, it was difficult not to pick up some of the chatter.

“I haven’t heard from Yeneval. She said she was taking a flyer down before the _Envati_ docked, but…” 

“All we can do is wait. The Shai Alyt ordered everyone to report their status so by tomorrow we should know who is missing.”

“Yeneval would have contacted us by now if she were alive-”

“She might just be injured.” Another voice, soft and reassuring. “She might be with the hela’mer.”

“That doesn’t reassure me. There are some things even our best hela’mer cannot fix - you remember what happened to Rasha-”

Neroon rocked to his feet, knocking his sar'chai to the ground. The cup rolled, spilling red into the paving cracks. He stared at it, wide eyed, and then at Branmer, before wheeling round and dashing through the terrace doors. The cup came to a gentle stop at the top of the steps.

“It does not help to speculate.” The soft voice was saying. “Mind your surroundings.”

Branmer reached for the cup and was so preoccupied with whether or not to follow Neroon that he didn’t notice someone coming up the steps until a shadow fell across him.

“Hello! You must be Branmer, yes?” A Warrior was standing over him, a steaming box under one arm and a baby slung snug across his front. The baby was soundly asleep, little face round and placid against the Warrior’s chest. “I am Rastier. I am your father’s aide. He asked me to check in on you and make sure you were eating. He won’t be back tonight.”

His father’s aide. What did a sech need with an aide? “We haven’t eaten yet.”

“Good” -Rastier raised the box he was holding- “I brought something from the Atrium for you. I wasn’t sure if you ate meat or not-”

“He does. He ate raalon last night.” Neroon’s sulky face poked round the terrace door. His eyes looked watery. “He’s not a very good priest.”

“It’s not an obligation in my order until we make our final vows to serve. Just… a recommendation,” Branmer said, any sympathy he had felt for Neroon quickly vanishing. “But it is a time of mourning, I should be fasting.”

“Your temple requires acolytes to fast so young?” Rastier frowned. It was a strange expression on his face - it seemed naturally given to smiling.

“No, bu-”

“Then you will eat,” Rastier said firmly. “I am not going back to your father and telling him I let you starve yourself.”

“Can I hold Eshinar?” Neroon sniffed, wiping the back of his hand over his eyes.

“If she wakes up.” Rastier cradled her head absently, holding out the box to Neroon. “First help me lay this food out.”

Neroon scurried inside with the food and Branmer ran to fetch plates while Rastier paused at the door, making the customary obeisance before toeing off his boots. He left them just outside, underneath the head of the door where they would be safe if it rained.

“What’s happening on the Orbital?” Branmer asked as he put plates on the table.

Rastier looked sideways at Neroon, who was opening up parcels of food and sliding them to the centre of the table. “There was an explosion that blew out a whole sector of the docks. We’re not sure exactly what happened. They’re still stabilising the orbital at the moment.”

“So it’s not completely destroyed?”

“No,” Rastier said, “and fortunately any debris that didn’t break up on entry fell on the Great Plains. We’ve seen some damage to crops, but no fatalities.”

“Will we know what happened soon?”

“Hopefully.” Rastier traced Eshinar’s sleeping face with a gentle thumb. “This little one’s mother is up there right now helping coordinate recovery with the workers.”

Recovery. Not rescue. Branmer guessed that the explosion had probably vented the entire affected section into space. It was hard to fathom the loss of life. Not just the dock workers, but anyone onboard the docked ships. Likely there would be few bodies to find.

They ate quietly while Rastier watched over them, rocking Eshinar gently. Neroon was a gloomy presence at the end of the table, only looking up to peer at Eshinar, and Branmer was preoccupied by his own thoughts, picking at his food and dwelling on an old memory that Neroon’s earlier comment had revived. It had not been long after his father had left Tuzanor, and Branmer and some of the other young acolytes had gone to the market on their half-day. When they’d grown hungry they’d stopped at a food stall, and Branmer, missing his father’s cooking, had picked out a stew of spiced raalon. None of the other acolytes had picked meat dishes.

He remembered all of them sitting elbow to elbow round a rickety table, under the shade of the stall awning, and Hevann opposite him, watching him eat with this strange, pointed look on his face. It hadn’t bothered him at the time, but now he could see - even the choice of a meal had marked him out as different, peculiar, _wrong_.

A small sound broke into his thoughts. Eshinar was waking up, eyes blinking open and mouth stretching in a contented yawn. Neroon was on his feet in an instant, stretching out his arms. “You said!”

“Have you finished eating?”

“Yes!” Neroon stretched his arms to their limit. “Please, za’den!”

Rastier laughed and with practiced movements released Eshinar from the sling, depositing her gently into Neroon’s arms. Branmer watched with growing trepidation, his whole body tensed to lunge and catch the poor little creature as soon as Neroon inevitably dropped her, or worse, decided it would be a good laugh to throw her. Eshinar, for her part, seemed entirely unaware of her present danger - she squinted up at Neroon and chuckled, grabbing his chin.

“She remembers you,” Rastier smiled.

Eshinar babbled happily at Neroon, who babbled right back, pulling his face into various grotesque expressions that delighted her more and more by every turn until finally she was shrieking with delight. Her delight only increased as Neroon raised her high above his head, swinging her up and down.

Ah, Branmer thought, oh no.

“Rawr,” Neroon said.

Eshinar giggled.

“Rawr!” Louder this time, swinging her up even higher.

Eshinar laughed, her little arms waving wildly. Neroon took a deep breath, drawing up as tall as he could. Rastier, seeming to sense what was coming next, sat up straighter. “Neroon, perhaps do not-”

“RAaaaaAWR!” Neroon yelled, putting his whole voice into the noise.

Eshinar’s eyes widened, her face crumpled, her mouth opened to form a wide chasm and she began to cry. The cry transcended into a violent wail. Neroon froze in place, Eshinar still held aloft. He looked like he was holding an explosive. “What did I do? Did I hurt her?!”

Branmer smothered a laugh; Neroon’s demeanor was just too pitiful. It was an edifying experience seeing him brought low by a baby.

Rastier was already up and out of his seat, plucking Eshinar from Neroon’s hands and cuddling her against his shoulder. The wail reduced to a burble and then a sniff and then happy chuckles again as Rastier swayed. “Sshhhh shh shh. There now. Don’t look so horrified, Neroon. You didn’t hurt her. You just startled her.”

“Sorry,” Neroon mumbled. “My little cousin always likes it when I roar.”

“She is older,” Rastier smiled. “Here, sit down and we’ll try again, yes?”

Branmer watched as Rastier settled Eshinar in Neroon’s arms again. This time Neroon snuggled her carefully against his shoulder and swayed gently, while she giggled and grabbed at his ear. “Ow,” Neroon yelped, “she is very strong for being so small.”

“That’s your punishment for making her cry,” Branmer said. “It's the universe sending you a message through one of its newest manifestations.”

Neroon looked up, just missing getting his nose yanked by an excited hand. “What message?”

“That” -Branmer tucked his hands inside his sleeves- “is for you to figure out.”

“Ugh.” Neroon screwed up his nose. “you are such a priest.”

“Well, yes.”

Rastier laughed, “Would you like to say hello to the universe, Branmer?”

Branmer hesitated.

“Go on, she doesn’t bite,” Rastier said. “Doesn’t have the teeth for it yet.”

“He’s probably afraid I will,” Neroon said. “I have lots of teeth and they are very sharp.”

That was a challenge that could not go unanswered. Neroon seemed to loath to give Eshinar up, so Branmer ended up pressed shoulder to shoulder with him, peering over his arm into Eshinar’s little round face. She was a delicate creature with a soft, upturned nose and wide blue eyes that crinkled up with joy when they fixed on him.

“Awwwoo!” She said.

“Awoo,” Branmer replied in kind, ignoring the snicker from Neroon.

“This is Branmer,” Neroon explained to her, as if she were a child his own age. “He is here because he-”

“You don’t need to tell her that,” Branmer cut in, seeing Rastier, who had begun clearing away the uneaten food and plates, turn away with a broad grin.

“I’m not going to lie to a baby!” Neroon adjusted his hold on Eshinar. “And why are you so ashamed anyway. That other acolyte deserved it. You only did wrong when you wouldn’t stop hitting him.”

“That is…” Branmer breathed out, “not how it works in my caste.”

Neroon huffed and let Eshinar, who was still grabbing at anything within reach and burbling quietly to herself, catch his pinky. She stared at it, fascinated.

“I was going to have a little brother or sister one day,” Neroon said so softly only Branmer could hear. “I was going to pick their name.”

Branmer was so close to Neroon he could feel the hitch of his breath. I should comfort him, Branmer thought. I may not be a priest yet, I may never be one, but it is still my calling to provide comfort and order to my fellow Minbari. Even the ones I find annoying. Especially the ones I find annoying.

But then Neroon moved, shifting away from Branmer and rising to his feet and the moment was gone. Rastier was reaching to take Eshinar back, tucking her into her sling and giving Neroon’s crest a gentle tug. “There, see, a little practice and you will do well. Perhaps one of these days you can look after her for me when I am too busy with my duties.”

Neroon beamed, brightening so much under Rastier’s praise that you could forget for a moment the melancholy of minutes earlier.

“I must take my leave now.” Rastier bent to pull his boots on. “I can trust you to see yourselves to bed?”

“Of course, za’den.”

Rastier wagged a finger at them both. “I know what I was like at your age - do not go to bed too late, yes?”

He left and Branmer closed the door after him. There was no gathering of Warriors tonight and no singing. All the terraces were quiet, so quiet it felt like an invisible blanket had been laid over the whole of the complex, smothering all the sound. Neroon had gone silent again too, and made little complaint when Branmer sent him off to bed, only insisting on replenishing the oil in the lamp.

Branmer himself had no intention of staying up late, but he had prayers and evening rituals to attend to. He had forgotten yesterday, feeling so nervous and everything being so new, but he was determined not to lapse again. He made use of his father’s little alter nook, lighting a candle and staring into as he wondered what he would say tonight. Prayer, Sech Kellier always said, was a conversation between the individual and the universe, and could take any shape required to bring understanding or peace. Some Minbari had a strict pattern of recitation their prayer followed, but Bramner seemed given to these wandering prayers, full of questions and speculations about the universe. Tonight he had only one object on his mind. “How do I come back from this? Can I come back from this?”

The candle flickered, but as always, the universe did not reply.

Branmer swallowed, “I know I am here for a reason and so, if I am to find a way back, then the means must be here. I just wish it were plainer what those means are. Some clarity would be helpful. A sign. Anything.”

Nothing.

“Right,” Branmer sighed, “I know it’s too much to ask, but thank you for listening.”

He followed the rest of his nightly rituals by rote, not even thinking as he went through gestures and recitations, they were so ingrained in his being. Finally he extinguished the candle and rose, returning to his shared bedroom, picking at the ties of his robe as he entered.

The lights were off and Neroon was wrapped up in his cocoon, shifting and wheezing in his sleep. Or Branmer thought he was sleeping, until he realised there was something off about the sound he was making - it was louder, but strained, like someone trying to keep quiet but being unable to totally contain themselves - and the more he listened the clearer it became. Neroon was crying.

I should comfort him, he thought again, it is what a priest should do. He made it a few, involuntary steps towards Neroon’s bed, hand outstretched and then he stopped. No, he thought, he wouldn’t want me to. And he turned away.

*

The next day he woke early, well before Neroon, and went through his morning rituals and ablations before settling down to meditate in a patch of sunlight streaming through the window.

Neroon was still asleep when he finished, making that little, damp snuffle that seemed to be his version of snoring. He slept on while Branmer dressed. Branmer set aside his acolyte’s robes, feeling unworthy of them, and picked out a blue grey wrap tunic with wide sleeves and silver catches. The worker caste seamstress had discovered his father was Star Rider and embroidered constellations in fine white thread at the collar and cuffs, subtle enough not to be noticed unless you were looking closely.

He was doing up the last catch when he heard talking in the main room; his father and someone else he couldn’t quite place. He poked his head around the door, jumping a little when he realised the other person was Alyt Verann.

His father was leaning on one of the counters, head tilted to one side as Varenn inspected the back of his crest. “I can’t see anything.” Verann was saying, squinting a little, “Hold still, I can’t look properly if you fidget. Oh wait... there is a little nick, but it’s nothing. Easily smoothed away.”

“Really?” Kedrunn frowned. “It felt like a large scratch to me.”

“Well, things often feel bigger than they actually are…. Don’t laugh! That is not-nhe’Khedrunn! Stop laughing! You are so childish.” Verann shoved at Kedrunn and gave in to laughter, the two leaning on each other as they dissolved into giggles.

Kedrunn wiped his eyes dry. “Valen, I need to get more sleep.”

“Ha! None of us will be getting much sleep until this mess is cleared up.” Verann mumbled, his face pressed into Kedrunn’s shoulder. “Kedrunn, there is a small priest watching us.”

Branmer started and ducked behind the doorframe but it was too late, his father had spotted him too. “Come out, Branmer. We’ve brought breakfast for you both.” Kedrunn said, “This is Alyt Verann. He’s-.”

“We met,” Verann said, peeling away from Kedrunn. “Yesterday.”

“You didn’t mention it.”

“Had other things on my mind,” Verann said, scrubbing a hand across his face and leaning heavily on the table. Out of the bulky Alyt’s uniform he was not as broad as he had previously appeared, but even in a plain black tunic he cut an intimidating figure.

“When did you get back?” Branmer loitered in the doorway, feeling an intruder. “I didn’t hear anything.”

“A little while ago. I only came to change. There’s too much work to be done today.” Kedrunn nudged Verann, who straightened up. “Most of the sechs will be busy with caste business, so classes are suspended. You’ll have to keep an eye on Neroon for me today.”

The universe never gives us more weight than we can bear, Branmer reminded himself. If he’s really bad I can just sit on him. And meditate. I can meditate for a really long time if I put my mind to it. It’ll be fine.

“Do you know what happened on the orbital? Rastier said there was an explosion.”

Kedrunn hesitated. “There was an engine malfunction onboard a frigate that was docking for repairs. They tried to pull away when they realised what was happening, but all that did was tear off half the dock and then…”

“Boom,” Verann muttered, reaching past Kedrunn for a flat bread. “Took out the rest of that section plus the other two ships that were docked there. Two of ours and one worker caste ship blasted into the atmosphere. That’s most of what fell on the Plains.”

“There will be an investigation.” Kedrunn braced himself on the countertop. He was watching Verann with a careful expression, like he was as liable to explode as the late frigate.

“Oh, but I think we already know why it happened.” Verann tore his flatbread in two, glaring at Branmer in a manner that suggested he was about to do the same thing to him. “Alyt Alerinn requested an overhaul of that engine cycles ago. The _Envati_ should have been pulled in for maintenance as soon as the problem was known, but instead it was delayed three times before-”

“Verann, save your anger for the Marka’ri’Minsa.”

“I’m not in any danger of running out. I’ve got a lifetime's worth stored up and more than enough of it to go around.”

“At least spare my son your ire,” Kedrunn replied dryly. “I’m fairly certain he has little control over policy and maintenance decisions.”

Verann considered Branmer. “No, I suppose he is a very young and inexperienced priest.”

“I’m not a priest,” Branmer corrected. “I’m an acolyte. Technically not even that, more of a novitiate, since I have not been given official duties yet or taken my vows of service.”

“That means absolutely nothing to me,” Verann said, biting into the flatbread, “You wear robes, you say prayers and observe pointless rituals. Acolyte, Novitiate, Priest, High Priest - they are all equal to me.”

“But not equal to a Warrior?”

“Even Neroon is the superior of any priest and he barely reaches the tabletop.”

“Verann, ple-”

“Alright, alright, I’ll stop.” Verann finished the flat bread and stretched. It was a considerable undertaking since there was so much of him. “I should be off anyway. I have to go up to the Orbital and meet with the Workers there, and then I go directly to Yedor to yell at the Marka’ri’Minsa. If I am very lucky I might get to yell at a Satai.”

“Just don’t enjoy yourself too much,” Kedrunn remarked. “It isn’t seemly, especially considering the circumstances.”

“Believe me, I’m not going to enjoy it,” Verann replied, stepping into his boots, “but I will get a little satisfaction from exacting some chastisement.”

Kedrunn pushed himself away from the counter and followed Verann out. They stood close together out on the terrace for a few moments, talking in undertones and Kedrunn making gentle, placatory gestures. Verann caught one of his hands in his and held it to his chest, reaching up to touch Kedrunn’s cheek.

Branmer looked away.

“I am surprised,” Branmer said, when he heard his father returning, “that he and va-sala are friends. They must argue a great deal.”

“I think,” his father said slowly, “that is part of the appeal.”

“Va-sala never mentioned knowing him.” Branmer fiddled with the cuff of his tunic, there was a loose thread poking out at the seam. “Neither did you.”

Kedrunn seemed to search the room for a reply, “It is… complicated, but you can trust Verann. If there’s ever anything you need and I am not here, you should go to him.”

“If he is not busy yelling at Satai.” Branmer folded his hands together, twisting his fingers together to stop himself yanking on the thread. “But if you say I should trust him, then I will, va-mala.”

Kedrunn breathed out slowly, “Thank you, ier-ma. It does mean a lot to me that you do.”

Not sure what to say to this, or what to make of what he had seen outside, Branmer fiddled with his sleeve again and decided to change the subject. “Va-mala, what Varenn said before, about the _Envati_ … is there going to be trouble?”

“If it is not handled properly, then yes.” Kedrunn pursed his lips. “There have been problems accumulating in the fleet for some time, but we don’t have priority in peacetime and there’s limited space in our shipyards. We were negotiating with the other castes for more space and maintenance slots when… well.”

Branmer blanched.

“I won’t lie to you, this will probably stir up a lot of bad blood between our castes. There are many Warriors who have long resented the level of influence the Religious Caste has over policy.” Kedrunn ran a hand over his face. “Valen help us if the _Envati_ ’s repairs were delayed in favour of a Religious Caste ship.”

“Should I go back to Tuzenor?” Bramner swallowed. “Will I still be welcome here?”

Kedrunn stepped close and held him by the shoulders. “You will always be welcome here, Branmer. You are my son and you have every right to be here. Never forget that.”

Branmer looked at his feet. “I won’t, va-mala.”

He was pulled into a firm hug,.“I am sorry I can’t be with you today like I promised.”

“I understand, va-mala.” He pressed his face into his father’s chest, hearing his heartbeat loud against his ear. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Ah, but I do. I always do. It’s the nature of being a father.” Kedrunn squeezed him tightly one last time and stepped away. “You will have to keep an eye on Neroon for me again. He has a remarkable aptitude for trouble.”

“Really, I can’t imagine.”

Kedrunn laughed and patted his cheek as he headed for the door. “If anything serious happens you are surrounded by Star Riders. One of them will step in to help. Children of the clan are always taken care of.”

Hardly a moment after Kedrunn had left Neroon poked his head round the door of the bedroom, scowling. “Is he gone?”

“They are both gone,” Branmer said, knowing Neroon meant Verann. “Does he visit often?”

“All the time.” Neroon emerged, sticking his nose in the air as he marched past Branmer. He was dressed in a very fine ensemble trimmed with gold and embroidered with stars. He looked so absurdly regal, even his crest brace giving the illusion of a little crown, that he could have been mistaken for royalty if the Minbari had such a thing. Branmer had read about the Centauri royal court for his cultural studies and he felt that even the Emperor’s grandson, who was of an age with Neroon, would struggle to look as grand.

“He is too tall.” Neroon flopped down at the table, and eyed Branmer balefully. “One day I will be taller than him and I will thrash him for being too tall.”

Branmer took a moment to consider the fascinating logical twists and hypocrisy of this statement. “Surely you would have to thrash yourself as well? Since you would also be too tall.”

“No, I would be the exact height I should be,” Neroon sniffed. “I would never be anything other than exactly what I should be.”

“No, of course not,” Bramner coughed to cover a laugh, and turned his mind to more serious matters. “I know it is the custom in the Warrior Caste to take offerings to those who have lost a loved one, but I do not know what preparations are to be made.”

Neroon was suddenly very grave. “We can’t do anything now, but tonight we should check the rolls of dead. Everyone who should have reported in will have done so by then, and I will know who to take offerings to tomorrow. You have the right to take them on your father’s behalf if he is unable.”

“I will trust you to know what is appropriate.” Branmer was relieved. It would only be those who Neroon or Kedrunn had a personal connection to, through friendship or family. Outside of those circles taking offerings would be seen as inviting yourself unwanted into the midst of private grief and would be an extraordinary offense.

Neroon shrugged, taking it as a given that Branmer would have no idea what to do, and began filling his plate. “Are you going to eat?”

“I have decided to fast.”

“But Rastier said-”

“I know, but it is not just because of the Orbital.” Branmer gestured to himself. “I have to prepare myself so that I can better myself and be allowed to return to temple. It is a personal and spiritual matter.”

“That is stupid,” Neroon scoffed and stuffed a flatbread whole into his mouth.

Branmer knew this was probably the nicest comment he could expect from Neroon on any spiritual matter and went out onto the terrace to meditate. His encounter with Verann had unbalanced him and he wanted to take a moment to clear his head. He was only a few minutes into his meditations - focusing on the measure of his breathing - when he was interrupted by someone coming up the stairs.

He was on his feet just in time to greet the approaching Warrior with a bow. She was a petite creature, but with a presence that made it feel as if she were towering over Branmer. Her uniform was unlike any he had seen before - a peculiar asymmetrical affair with a triangular cape covering one arm and leather armour down the other. There was braid, like the Alyt’s wore, but instead of being hooked from shoulder to shoulder it was loose at one end and tucked into her belt, the end dangling to her hems. And there, on the same belt, hung a nil’bok.

“I am here for Neroon,” she said, and it was like watching a statue speak, her face was so like a stone. Branmer had never seen anyone so clearly and absolutely confident of their place in the universe. Not even his father or Verann walked like the world was built to bend to their will.

“Yes, master, he’s, um.” Branmer gave up babbling and shoved his head back through the door. “Neroon! One of the Kaliv’nai is here for you!”

Neroon came scurrying out, horror evident in every aspect of his being. “But… master! There are no classes today. The sechs-”

She stopped him with a hand, pointing towards the sky. “I am no sech, zha’den. The suns do not stop for death, nor the moons or the tides, and neither do I.”

Neroon groaned bodily, “I am sorry, master, I meant no disrespect. I will be only a moment.”

He emerged again a few seconds later, a small satchel banging against his side and hopping a little as he pulled on his boots. “I am ready, master.”

“Good,” she said, and stepped aside to let him run down ahead of her.

Branmer hesitated, “Should I come too, master? My father said I was-”

She stopped him with a hand. “No,” she said, with a firmness that was absolute and inarguable, “This is not for you, little priest. You will stay here.”

“How long-?”

But she was already walking away.

Assuming that obeying a Kaliv'nai would hardly get him into trouble, Branmer tried to return to his meditation, but found himself unable to stop fidgeting. If he was in temple he would be in the middle of his morning chores before lessons. He missed the routine, even if the routine involved sweeping floors. You could get a lot of thinking done sweeping floors.

Eventually he gave up trying to meditate and stretched out on his back, listening to the niyaan chirping in the trees. By the standards of other worlds it was by no means a hot day, but for Minbar this was the peak of summer, and soon Branmer was dozing in a patch of sunlight, one sleeve draped over his eyes. He had been lying like this for some time, the warmth seeping pleasantly through him as he half-dreamed, when he heard voices whispering very close by.

“What is he doing? Is he dead?”

“Sssh, Morreal, I think he is sleeping. Perhaps we should leave?”

“Sleeping flat? He is certainly dead.”

“Look, he’s breathing. His chest is moving.”

Branmer lifted his arm and rose up onto his elbows. There was a pack of young Warriors at the top of the steps staring at him. They were all around his age - their crests fully shaped but still some cycles away from facing their Mora’dum.

“Can I help you? If you’re looking for Neroon he’s not here.”

“Neroon?” They were baffled. “What would we want with him? He’s a baby.”

“We came looking for you, little priest.” Another smiled. “We are going down to the river and thought you might like to come with us.”

“I,” Branmer sat up properly, a little startled, “I’m not sure if… I should be here when Neroon comes back.”

“That is no matter. He went with Kalivai Burell, yes? So he will come back by the river. You need not fear missing him.”

Branmer considered this, it was certainly more appealing than waiting alone indefinitely for Neroon to return. “Is it appropriate, given what is happening?”

“If it was inappropriate we would not do it.” The girl at the head of the group, who seemed to be their appointed leader, made an encompassing gesture with her hand. “It is more important than ever to be together. Some of us are waiting for news of family and friends. It is not good to wait alone.”

Of course. Their parents were probably busy with caste duties. He pushed himself to a stand and bowed. “I do not know your names.”

There was a round of introductions, which were almost immediately lost on him. Only three stayed in his mind, Deronn, the leader of the pack, Morreal, an angular Wind Sword who kept peering sideways at Branmer like he wanted to murder him, and Shakiri, a broad, towering Night Walker who shoved the other Warriors aside, nearly knocking one of them over, insisting that he was going to walk alongside the little priest and the rest could back off.

“I am new to Tinarel too,” Shakiri said, speaking in standard Fik, for which Branmer was grateful. He was older than the rest of the group, one of those rare Minbari who could grow a beard, and Branmer suspected he had been charged with keeping an eye on them. “I grew up in Yedor, but mother was needed here and so I followed her. You are from Tuzenor yes?”

“Yes, I was born here, but lived in Tuzenor from when I was three cycles. I do not remember anything of Tinarel.”

“I have always wanted to go to Tuzenor,” Shakiri said wistfully. “But I think that is the dream of all Minbari! To walk where Valen walked.”

“He walked here too,” Branmer smiled. “And in Yedor.”

“Ye-es,” Shakiri smiled back, elbowing Branmer none too gently, “but it is not the same and you know it, little priest.”

“Do you miss Yedor?”

“A bit, but I’m glad we came here. I might not have met Morreal’s sister otherwise.” Shakiri slapped Morreal’s shoulder, sending the younger warrior into a stagger, and received a biting glare in return. “Soon Morreal and I will be brothers.”

Morreal’s lip curled. He looked as though he had just bitten into something particularly sour and was struggling not to spit it out. His eyes narrowed on Shakiri with such an intensity of dislike that it could almost be felt in the air between them. “Not so soon, Shakiri.”

Shakiri just laughed, “You see my troubles, Branmer. The Wind Swords are the proudest of all the clans and they don’t invite newcomers easily.”

“I can see that,” Branmer said, but there was something else here. Morreal’s antipathy felt like something more than merely being protective of clan traditions; it was personal.

They were coming to the river now, the path entering under the canopy of trees that followed the banks. Branmer heard voices first, murmurings so soft they could be mistaken for the rush of wind through grass, and then figures appeared through the trees, gathered on the tumbledown, rocky edges of the river. The path sloped down abruptly here, and Branmer was only stopped from sliding the rest of the way to the bottom by Shakiri hooking a hand into his collar and hauling him back.

“Watch it, priest,” he laughed, “don’t want to get mud on your nice tunic.”

Morreal slipped past them and loped nimbly down the incline. He peeked back at Branmer with a mocking smile. “Think you can make it yourself or would you like Shakiri to carry you?”

Branmer gritted his teeth and picked his way down, feeling Morreal’s attention on him every time he stumbled even slightly. Was this what it was going to be like the entire time he was here? Always being observed and picked at for weaknesses?

At the bottom the path widened out again onto the rocky bank, emerging amidst a sprawling mass of young Warriors, perched on the rocks or spreading out on the grass. On the other side of the river the rocks rose up to form a cliff, veined with crystal deposits and thick with plant growth. Below, jutting into the middle of the river was a single giant crystal which reflected and refracted the filtering sunlight until it seemed to glow from within. Shakiri pointed it out with a smile, “That’s the Mourning Rock. It’s where Talshaan of the Star Riders took her own life rather than surrender Tinarel to the Night Walkers.”

Deronn had arrived behind them, sounding slightly out of breath. “Everywhere you go in Tinarel there is Night Walker or Star Rider blood beneath your feet. By the time you are finished here you will be sick of hearing of this battle or that battle.”

“Tuzenor is built over blood too.” Branmer said. Their arrival had been marked by the other Warriors and several were standing up, moving towards them.

“Isn’t all of Minbar?” Morreal muttered, nodding curtly to one of the other Warriors. “Even the skies above aren’t free of it. We are all awash in it.”

“Most Warriors seem to enjoy retelling stories of past battles.” Bramner fiddled with his collar, curious about Morreal - there was something of a trapped animal about him, snarling and snapping at anyone who came near him. “You don’t?”

“Should I be proud of a time when we murdered one another in petty disputes? That is not our way anymore. We don’t fight for the sake of fighting, priest. We fight to preserve life, because we value life and understand how precious and fragile it is,” Morreal said. “Win or lose once we have engaged in battle we know we have already failed at our chief purpose, all we can do is make that failure worth the price. I’m surprised you don’t know this, isn’t your father a Warrior?”

“But I am not a Warrior, as you can see.” Bramner had an uneasy feeling that he was being led into an argument.

“I suppose you think it is beneath you. The religious caste always believes that the concerns of the Warrior caste are beneath them.” Morreal took a step towards him, hand dropping to his hip as if reaching for a weapon. “We’re nothing more than tools at your disposal.”

“Morreal,” Shakiri began, reaching for Morreal, but Morreal jerked away from him.

“I will remind you, Shakiri, that your courtship with my sister is not yet complete and as such you are not yet part of my clan or my family and have no right to interfere in my affairs,” Morreal snapped, every word more edged than the last. “This is between me and the priest.”

Shakiri stepped back, shrugging. No one else seemed inclined to intervene.

“Is it really between us?” Branmer said. “Because it sounds as though this is about my caste, not me.”

Morreal turned that vicious gaze of his back to Branmer. “You don’t care to understand us, but you would be happy to let us die for you.”

“I did not realise Warriors were so afraid to die.” Branmer snapped back, and regretted it instantly. It was a cruel thing to say, and he did not mean it, which made the saying worse. He could feel the intake of breath from all around him as every Warrior suddenly stilled. “I’m sorry, I didn-”

“We are not afraid to die!” Morreal hissed, throwing his arms wide. “Every Warrior from the day they were born knows that their life is forfeit for Minbar. We are already dead! We only ask that our deaths have some kind of meaning and be more than an administrative error!”

Branmer stayed quiet. He had a feeling that anything he said would only inflame Morreal and he was acutely aware that he was surrounded on all sides with no way out. This was about the _Envati_. Morreal was angry and he wanted someone he could blame and Branmer was the only available priest. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t a proper priest, just a disgraced acolyte. It was what he represented.

“You come here, entirely ignorant of us and our ways, and dare to talk down to us.” Morreal hissed. “We would gladly lay down our lives for you and the rest of your caste. Tell us where to go and who to fight and we will do it, but we cannot do it with tools that are not fit for purpose!”

“Morreal,” Deronn tried to interrupt, but Morreal swatted her away.

“I can see why your father left you in Tuzenor. I would have done the same with such a son.” Morreal sneered. It was an expression that suited him. “I wonder who is more ashamed? Him of you, or you of him?”

“Morreal!” Deronn breathed out shock. “You go too far.”

Branmer clenched his fists, feeling the nails digging deep and that old familiar fury lancing through him. He could feel all the eyes on him, waiting to see what he would say or do. And there in front of him Morreal was smiling, it was an ugly smile, full of cruelty, but behind that there was something else - almost a dare.

Morreal let out a surprised yelp when Branmer struck him. They hit the ground together and Branmer immediately forgot what little his father had taught him about fighting, his arms windmilling furiously to hit Morreal wherever he saw an opening. Morreal seemed to struggle, barely able to shield himself, and then Branmer felt a leg hooking around his own and they were rolling, hitting and scratching and tearing at each other as they slid. Morreal got in a jab to the ribs, Branmer hit him harder in the face and suddenly there was blood everywhere. They rolled to a stop, Branmer now on top, Morreal trying to push him off and Bramner smacking his hands down.

Someone tried to pull him away, but Branmer jerked his arm back, elbow connecting and hearing a soft ‘oof’ as the interloper staggered back.

Morreal made one last, half hearted attempt to push him off and then went limp. Branmer knew he should stop but he couldn’t, he was too angry; angry with Morreal, with the Warrior Caste, with his own caste, with his temple masters, with Hevann, and even angry at his father for keeping so much from him, for leaving him so ignorant and so exposed to ridicule.

He was raising a fist to strike again, his whole focus narrowed down to his rage and to Morreal’s bloodied face, when he was lifted up suddenly and thrown down hard. He tried to rise, but a boot planted in his chest, pushing him back into the ground. “Don’t try it,” a gruff voice said above him, “or I will put you down harder the second time.”

“Nareel!” Moreal was scrambling to his feet, one hand cupped under his nose and dripping red. “Please, it was my own fault. I was goading the priest.”

“Shut up,” Nareel snapped, but she eased the pressure slightly, giving Branmer space to breath. “I’m not interested in listening to a Warrior who allowed himself to be so easily defeated by a little priest.”

Morreal shrank back. “My apologies.”

The rest of the young Warriors were silent, frozen in a nervous tableau. Even Shakiri was fixed in place. Branmer had no idea what to make of Nareel. She was dressed in a plain Warrior’s uniform, but the reactions from their audience said she was anything _but_ a plain Warrior. And then for the second time that day he saw it - the hilt of a nil’bok, sticking out over Nareel’s shoulder. Nareel was no Kaliv’nai, that was certain, so that left only one explanation and it was one that left Branmer’s mouth dry.

“Well, little priest” -Nareel pushed her boot down again- “the Shai Alyt wants to know what all the noise is about - what shall I tell him?”

“I-” Branmer licked his lips. “We were having a discussion and it became heated.”

“Heated?” Nareel laughed unpleasantly. “Your caste truly outdo themselves when it comes to redefining words.”

“If you want to fight a priest, Nareel, could you at least pick one that’s full grown? Or is the Warrior Caste in the habit of bullying children now?”

Nareel’s head jerked up, her lip curling into a snarl that vanished as she recognised the newcomer. She looked almost afraid, “I am only seeking answers, master.”

“But in such a way as to make the subject too afraid to answer.” The new arrival wove her way through the frozen Warriors, coming to a stop beside Morreal. She was a Worker, dressed in the autumnal finery her caste favoured, and with the sigils of the Engineers Guild over her heart. “Let the priest up, Nareel.”

There was a moment when it seemed like Nareel would refuse, but then she inclined her head and stepped off Branmer. “As you wish, Jaihak, but I think the Shai Alyt will want to meet this fighting priest.”

“Then bring him.” Jaihak shrugged, and walked past them and up the hill. “Who am I to deny the Shai Alyt a little amusement.”

Branmer scrabbled to his feet, trembling as he tried to dust the dirt from his clothes. He had never heard of a Warrior addressing a Worker with so much respect unless they were Satai.

“Hurry up, priest.” Nareel grabbed his wrist and began hauling him bodily up the hill. “You too, Morreal. I’m sure your mother will be pleased to see what a weak son she has raised.”

Morreal followed, one sleeve pressed to his nose, his posture hunched. He shot Branmer a look as he came even with him, and Branmer was surprised to find pity in those sharp eyes. He turned away. He didn’t want pity, least of all from Morreal.

They were led, or dragged, along a path that rose up to look down over the river, threading further into the woods until a pavilion emerged through the trees. An old wooden structure, flat roofed and hugging the ground. Jaihak had disappeared inside ahead of them, Branmer could hear her greeting someone, though he couldn’t make out the words over the blood rushing in his ears. Every part of him, down to the smallest cell, wanted to turn away and run, but Nareel’s hand was like steel around his wrist, and he could do nothing as he was dragged forward and thrown inside.

“Found a little lost priestling down by the river,” Nareel laughed. “Think he might belong to you, Kedrunn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative summary for this chapter: Branmer finds out his dad fucks.
> 
> Also yes, my fave thing about writing Warrior Caste characters is how incredibly extra they are. Not a single one of them has any chill. Maybe Kedrunn I guess.
> 
> Sorry this chapter took so long. Most of the issue was trying to stitch everything together so there was a lot of editing. Anyway next time on Branmer's stressful adventures with the Warrior Caste we finally meet the current Shai Alyt.


	5. The Shai Alyt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. This chapter took an unbelievably long time to finish. Sorry about that. Mostly this was because I was relocating back home to be with my family, so that was taking up a lot of my time. Plus, originally a lot more was meant to go in this chapter so it just kept getting longer and longer until finally last weekend I realised the only sensible thing to do was to cut it into two chapters. On the brightside this means chapter 6 should be ready far sooner than this chapter. Other stuff: for some reason I decided to change my style to capitalising Warrior, Religious etc this chapter and I prefer it now, so I will probably go back and fix the other chapters to conform when I get a chance (this week hopefully). Also because I am travelling at the moment I haven't been able to go through my full editing process for checking for spelling errors, missing words etc etc, so apologies if any of those pop up - I will fix them as soon as I can I just wanted to get this chapter out there already. Hmm, what else. Oh yeah. Sorry to any Shetlanders who might be reading this. You'll, um, see what I mean. Yeah.

“I hope you have a good reason to be treating my son like that, Nareel.”

Branmer turned towards his father’s voice, fumbling to straighten his tunic. Kedrunn was a few paces away, his hand outstretched towards Rastier, who was handing him a tablet. Eshinar was there, tucked up in her sling and such an incongruous spot of smiling calm against the chaos of Branmer’s yammering heartbeat that he almost tripped over his feet.

Kedrunn ignored Branmer, frowning past him at Nareel.

“I caught him fighting with Morreal.” Nareel sounded a little put upon. “Perhaps fighting is the wrong word - Morreal seemed to be giving little resistance.”

“Is that so, Morreal?” A sharp voice inquired, and as Branmer’s eyes adjusted to the gloom he realised with growing horror that he was the focus of a large audience of Warriors. It seemed in fact that half the Caste leadership was gathered before him, divided into their Clan contingents. Through the blood thundering in his ears he spotted Alyt Shakaia among the Star Riders and Sech Sekhat with the Moon Shields, but no sign of Rokesh. Perhaps he was in Yedor like Verann? The Warrior who had spoken was seated at the front of the Wind Sword contingent, an aide at her shoulder. She regarded Morreal with a cool, disapproving stare.

Morreal stepped forward. “Yes, mother. That is correct. He had the better of me.”

Her lip curled in a sneer and she turned back to her aide without another word. Morreal winced. Branmer was too angry and shaken to feel sorry for him. This was real, this was actually happening. He wanted to be sick. He thought he might be.

“So this is your son then, Kedrunn? He looks just like you at that age. More timid, perhaps.”

Instantly everyone’s attention shifted away from Branmer. The speaker was sitting a little apart from the assembly, reclined on a divan with one leg propped up; the other bent, a reader leant against it. A hela’mer hovered at his shoulder, two of the Azari’den ranged on either side.

“That is correct, Shai Alyt. Though he’s not usually so shy.” Kedrunn gave Branmer’s shoulder a little comforting squeeze. “Slow, steady breaths, Branmer. Just like for meditation.”

Branmer nodded helplessly, but it was hard to focus when he could feel Lavek watching him. From the talk around Tuzenor Branmer had always assumed that the Shai Alyt must be very old - why else would everyone talk about his death as if it were an imminent and expected event? He now saw he had been grossly mistaken. Lavek was no older than his father, but whatever sickness he suffered it had stripped away what was left of his youth, leaving him nothing more than skin stretched too thin over bone. He looked like the lightest tap would shatter him.

“Don’t look so worried, child,” Lavek said, examining Branmer with sharp, unwavering eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about!” Branmer exclaimed and then blanched, hunching down into a bow and fixing his eyes on the floor in the proper posture of humility. “My apologies, Shai Alyt.”

There was an annoyed intake of breath from Lavek, “Oh, stop that. I cannot _stand_ Religious Caste grovelling. Honestly, it’s a wonder you don't spend half your time walking into things. Head up. My authority is not so weak that it will crumble if I am looked at by a little priest.”

There was a murmur of laughter from the assembled Warriors.

Branmer’s face heated. “Yes, Shai Alyt. I’m sorry.”

“That’s better.” Lavek pointed to Morreal. “Now explain to me why you did that.”

“It was my fault,” Morreal said. “I was-”

“I didn’t ask you, Morreal,” Lavek said, suddenly gentle. “Let the priest account for himself.”

Branmer turned pleadingly to his father, who deflected with a vague expression. “Go on, Branmer. I am also interested to know what led you to this.”

This had to be the worst day of his life. What could possibly be worse than this? Out the corner of his eye he could see Morreal, looking almost as miserable as he felt. He wasn’t the only one having a bad day, and that was the excuse he needed. “Perhaps I just felt like hitting someone.”

Silence. His father eyed him with curiosity.

“You,” Lavek began slowly, “just felt like hitting someone?”

“Yes,” Branmer said, more firmly this time. “It seemed like a good idea at the time, but I see on reflection that it was conduct unbecoming a novitiate of the Fane of Sanaya and I am ready to do whatever penance you require.”

“There was no other reason then?” Lavek said. “You just hit him on a whim?”

Branmer tucked his hands into his sleeves. They were shaking a little, but he ignored them. “Sometimes the universe moves us in ways that are beyond our mere mortal understanding.”

There was a startled, smothered laugh from the Moon Shield contingent. It was Sekhat. She covered her mouth with a hand but her shoulders continued to shake. Kedrunn folded his arms.

Lavek’s mouth had fallen open slightly. “I have heard some truly singular excuses from your caste, but ‘the universe made me do it’ is certainly a new one.”

“Is it?” Jaihak interjected. Branmer jumped. In his distraction he had failed to notice her and a small group Workers sitting to the right of the Warriors. She was suddenly a commanding presence in his vision, seated in state at the center of her contingent. “I find that on close examination most of what the Religious Caste proffers as reason ultimately comes down to that.”

“That is, perhaps, unfair,” Lavek replied. “They are occasionally capable of providing explanations backed by material causes. Though not, it would seem, in this instance.” He turned back to Branmer. “You know that I can simply ask Morreal what happened and he’ll have to answer me.”

“As you wish, Shai Alyt,” Branmer said. “It will not change my answer.”

Lavek’s eyes narrowed, sliding from Branmer to Kedrunn. “He’s as infuriatingly obstinate as you, Kedrunn.”

“But not obstinate without a reason, I think,” Kedrunn said. There was the beginning of a smile at the edges of his mouth.

“Well,” Lavek rested his head in his hand. Branmer felt like every aspect of his being was being catalogued, weighed and judged. “I can’t have some wild priest running about disrupting my Warriors, and I can’t send you back to your temple since they don’t seem interested in taking responsibility for you, so what will I do with you?”

He didn’t seem to be expecting an answer so Branmer offered none. He couldn’t think of one anyway. All he could think was how unfair this was. Sineval had hit Neroon and got away with nothing more than apology.

“Morreal, tell me, what kind of fighter is our little priest?”

Morreal started. “I-he-what he lacks in any skill or finesse he makes up for in ferocity, Shai Alyt.”

“Hmmm,” Lavek said thoughtfully, drumming skeletal fingers against his chin. “Priest, if you are going to run around causing trouble and fighting then at least you should be able to do it properly. I will leave the arrangements to your father, but I expect to see you enrolled in the appropriate classes for the duration of your stay. I would say denn’hai and denn’bok, to begin.” Lavek glanced at Kedrunn again, “Unless you object, Kedrunn?”

Branmer felt his soul exit his body in a rush. He knew exactly what the other acolytes would say if he returned and they found out he’d been enrolled in a Warrior Caste training. Tagging along with Neroon’s set for a day had been one thing, but this was, this was… he turned pleadingly towards his father, but that not-yet-smile was still at his mouth. “I had much the same idea in mind, Shai Alyt.”

“If I might suggest strategy and tactics as well,” Sekhat said. “I would be happy to enrol him in one of my sets. He seemed to show an interest and with Sarenn leaving to begin her engineering placement I have space for him.”

Kedrunn cocked his head. “He can compete?”

“I believe so,” Sekhat smiled, “but if not I’m certain he will catch up quickly.”

“Very good. That’s settled then.” Lavek delivered a satisfied smile. “And you will apologise to Morreal in the proper manner,” he paused, “at a time and place of your choosing.”

“Couldn’t you just let me do a ritual of penitence?” And Branmer immediately wished he could sew his own mouth shut. Neroon was right, he was stupid.

Fortunately Lavek only met the impertinence with an even broader smile. “What would that solve? Would you learn anything from it? If your masters had thought such a ritual appropriate then why did they send you here instead?”

Branmer looked at his feet. There was a spot of blood on the toe of one boot. “They said I might learn something.”

“And so, you will learn,” Lavek made a definitive gesture. “Perhaps you will even learn not to fight.”

Branmer bowed stiffly. “Yes, Shai Alyt.”

Lavek turned back to Jaihak.“Perhaps now we can attend to our business? Unless your honorable companions require more time to discuss? They were having quite the argument before you arrived.”

One of the workers behind Jaihak made a remark in Lenn’ah that Branmer couldn’t catch, but Levak nodded. Another worker thrust a reader under Jaihak’s nose - she scanned it and made an exasperated gesture. “We will need a moment longer, Shai Alyt.”

“Take as much time as you need, master. I am not going anywhere.” Levak laughed. “And we understand that what we are asking is a considerable undertaking on the part of your Guild. You already have our gratitude for even considering such a request.”

Branmer was surprised that Levak spoke so respectfully to the workers. It didn't seem like the Warrior Caste. 

“A word with you, priest, before you leave,” Lavek said, gesturing for Branmer to come closer with one hand and dismissing his advisors with the other. “In private. Stop hovering, Kedrunn. Your son is far too old for you to fuss over him - if you are looking for a baby Rastier can oblige you.” The Hela’Mer seemed inclined to stay, but Lavek shooed her towards Morreal. “Go and see to that child’s nose before it turns to mush.”

Branmer shuffled up to the Shai Alyt, wondering when this excruciating experience was going to end.

“Closer, Valen’s sake, I am not going to hurt you.” Lavek’s skeletal fingers grasped his arm with surprising strength, dragging him down until their faces were level. He smiled and leaned in to whisper, “Would you like some advice?”

He could hardly refuse the Shai Alyt. “I would be honoured.”

“No, you wouldn’t, but I’ll give it to you anyway.” He tapped at Branmer’s chest, and spoke in a low drawl, “You, priest, should take more care how you show your anger, and when. Anger has its uses; it can sustain us when we have nothing else left to draw from, give us strength when we need it most, and direction when we are lost. Purposed to a cause it is a very powerful thing, but exercise it without discipline and all you do is reveal your weaknesses.”

He pointed past Branmer to where Morreal was sitting now, head tipped back as the hela’mer poked at his nose. “You have given him and every Warrior who witnessed that fight an insight into your vulnerabilities. You may not have told them in detail, but you have allowed them enough to know where the wound is and where best to strike if they are ever so inclined. I think you understand that enough to realise you didn’t want anyone here knowing it, but the damage is already done. You need to take more care, understand?”

Branmer stared back into pale eyes, set in that even paler, skeletal face, and nodded. “I understand, Shai Alyt.”

“Good.” Lavek fell back. His hand, which had shown so much strength only a moment before, dropped limply to his side. He looked terribly fragile. “Oh, and you’ll want to soak your tunic in cold water before you put it to wash.”

Branmer looked down at his front and winced. Valen, what a monstrous sight he must be. A little priest with scraped knuckles and blood smeared down his front. “Yes, Shai Alyt. Thank you.”

“Now run along and keep out of trouble.”

Branmer backed away bowing. His father was waiting for him by the entrance, arms folded and emphatically bland.

“Where is Neroon?” He said.

“Kalivai Burell took him away. Should I have stopped her?” Branmer said meekly. “I was not sure what to do. I thou-”

“No, that is fine,” Kedrunn said. “At least you did not abandon your charge then.”

Branmer felt his face flushing. “I’m sorry, va-mala. I-”

“We will discuss this later.” Kedrunn held up a hand. “Can I trust you to get home without incident or do you require a chaperone?”

Branmer shrank, glancing to where Eshinar was being held aloft by Shakaia while Rastier watched, round faced and proud. “You can trust me. I will go straight home, va-mala. I promise.”

“Good,” Kedrunn laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. “Run on home now, I’ll be back as soon as the Shai Alyt can spare me.”

He was barely out of sight of the pavilion -walking at a jerky trot and torturing himself with all the worst versions of what his father might say to him- when he heard a voice calling out behind him. “Hey, wait! Priest!”

It was Morreal, jogging up behind him and waving a hand for his attention.

“If you want to start another fight I am not interested.” Branmer gave his tunic a vicious tug and heard something tear. “I am already in enough trouble.” He kicked a stone in his path, “This is the worst day of my entire _skreka_ life.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Morreal caught up to him. “You’re only, what, fifteen cycles? Plenty of time to have worse days.”

“Will you just leave me alone?” Branmer snapped, giving up on his tunic. “You’ve successfully humiliated me in front of your friends and the Shai Alyt, what more do you want?”

“You think you’re the one who was humiliated back there?” Morreal laughed disbelievingly. The swelling and bruises on his face had disappeared, but there was still a smear of blood across his mouth and chin. “I barely got a tap in! With proper training you, well, anyway - why did you do that? Why didn’t you tell them what I said?”

“I didn’t just do it for you!” Branmer halted, catching his own breath. “Do you think I wanted to admit to why I hit you in front of, of, of all of _them_? In front of the Shai Alyt. In front of my _father_. Don’t think for a _second_ I care about you. You can go drown in the river for all I care.”

“I won’t be much use to y-”

“What exactly do you want from me?” Branmer rounded on Morreal, who glared back boldly. “Is there a reason you’re following me? Don’t you have anything better to do except taunt priests all day? Don’t you have important Warrior Caste business you need to attend to like polishing your denn’bok?”

There was an awkward pause. Morreal’s mouth twitched.

“I didn’t mean _that_!” Branmer snapped, blushing furiously.

Morreal cleared his throat, “I don’t have a denn’bok. Yet. They don’t just hand them out like that. We use a staff for training. But that’s besides the point. I wanted to apologise actually. I was angry and while I still stand by most of what I said, I shouldn’t have said it to you. You didn’t deserve it.”

Branmer deflated. “Oh.”

“And I’m very sorry about… you know,” Morreal coughed and focused everywhere except Branmer. “Look, I’m not very good at apologising. I don’t do it very often.”

“I can tell.” Branmer smiled cautiously. “Sorry I hit you.”

“I’ve had worse. My sister broke my wrist once. I had, um, obtained some personal correspondence of hers and she was trying to get it back. Wasn’t really her fault,” Morreal shrugged. “I also wanted, well, perhaps I could be of help to you? Don’t take this the wrong way, but it seems to me that despite your father you’re very ignorant about the caste. I can help you while you’re here - tell you who is who and what status they hold, who to avoid and who to trust, and answer any other questions you might have.”

Bramner stared at Morreal. Could he even trust anything Morreal had to say? “You would do that?”

“I am bound to protect you and ignorance is a form of danger.” Morreal flicked a hand dismissively. “I would only be fulfilling my obligations as a Warrior.”

Branmer shook his head. “I cannot make you out at all. One minute you’re determined to fight me, the next you’re apologizing and offering your service.”

“Think of it as my way of making amends.” Morreal smiled and then pointed down the path. “As my first service to you, may I suggest that you pick another route back to your father’s home. If you go that way Shakiri and the rest will be waiting for you and they will have questions I expect you won’t want to answer.”

“I don’t know any other way back.”

“Then let me show you.” Morreal said and ducked off the path into the surrounding woods, crashing through the undergrowth. He stopped and looked back, partially obscured by the brush. “Are you coming?”

Well, why not. His tunic was already ruined anyway.

*

  
Neroon jerked back, feeling the rush of air as Burell’s hand passed close to his ear. He kept low - he didn’t like to admit it, but being short did have advantages - and wove in a circular pattern; keeping out of her reach and keeping his guard up.

Burell watched him placidly. “Think again, child, what was wrong?”

“The hierarchy?”

“Don’t ask me. Say it.” She took a step towards him and he flinched away.

“I-” He could feel himself flagging. It wasn’t a difficult question. But he was tired and he wanted to sit down and he wanted Burell to shut up and stop asking him stupid questions. “There are three imperatives that govern a Warrior’s life. Service to Minbar, service to caste, service to clan.”

“And the most important of these is?”

He glared at her. “Service to Minbar, _obviously_. For that we sacrifice caste, clan, and ourselves. Even _babies_ know that.”

“Babies, yes, but what about you?”

“Of course I know! I didn’t think the order I listed them mattered - everyone knows which one takes precedence!”

“Precision is always required in these matters, child, lest others mistake you.”

“Yes, master,” he said, resisting a strong urge to roll his eyes.

Her eyes narrowed. “One last question and then we will stop this exercise. Tell me, what would you consider the greatest imperative of the clan?”

“Making me miserable?” Neroon snapped. His legs really did feel like they were about to give out.

“Be serious, Neroon,” she said gravely, not even blinking at his outburst. “Think. Look to yourself for the answer.”

Valen, she had such an infuriatingly cryptic way of talking. Look to yourself. How stupid. He didn’t need to look at himself to know the answer. “Children.”

Burell nodded. “Children are the future of the clan and the caste. As a clan our greatest responsibility is to protect and prepare our children to take up their duties as Warriors. To act in a manner that endangers a child or causes them harm is to act against the clan.”

“I knew that,” Neroon snorted. “Babies k-”

“Since you know so much,” Burell interrupted him in a flat tone, “you must know the one circumstance when this would _not_ apply.”

“ _Of course._ ” He did roll his eyes this time. Like he needed reminding about his own duties as a Star Rider. “If it was necessary to protect Minbar we would sacrifice ourselves down to the last child, just like the Blood Song. Even children have to fight if their Clan requires it. I get that. What I don’t get is this is necessary?” He gestured angrily at the training circle,.“These exercises are stupid! They’re not even _fair_. How am I supposed to give word perfect answers when I can barely stand?!”

“Do you think an enemy is going to let you sit calmly and consider your answers?”

“No! But an enemy isn’t going to care about any of this stuff!”

Burell remained as bland as ever. “To fight is easy, but to fight with clarity of mind and purpose and honour; that is what elevates us above lesser species like the Narn and the Centauri. And to do that you must have all of this in your mind at all times. It must become as much a part of you as any limb.”

“Fine! But what does any of this have to do with ritual forms?” Neroon knew he was pushing close to Burell’s tolerance for disrespect. “Why can’t you just teach me that - why do I need to know all of this,” he flapped his hands, “other stuff?”

“Ritual undertaken without understanding what lies beneath is meaningless.” Burell paced the edge of the circle. “Once you have mastered this we will move onto the Laws that govern the obligations of the Shai Alyt and the obedience of the Clans. They were laid out a thousand years ago when Rashok with Valen remade the Warrior Caste in our present and true form. Our rituals remind the present Shai Alyt and his Clan Leaders of their duty to Minbar and act as a renewal of their vows. They do not exist in isolation, nor are they, as the Workers and Priests believe, merely a remembrance for the dead. They are a remembrance of our true duty as Warriors.”

Neroon slumped, letting his arms dangle. “Of course, master. I understand.”

“Good,” Burell folded her arms. “You seem to think this is all some appalling burden, but it is not, it is a privilege. When the time comes for your peers to begin studying the same you will already be years ahead, which will only be to your advantage if you want to be an Alyt or rise within the Clan.”

“I know,” Neroon said glumly, and he could feel it now, that thing that was always encroaching on the edge of his thoughts that he would normally chase away with noise and distractions, “but I haven’t been given it because I earned it. It’s because...because-” he couldn’t finish the thought, “- I don’t even _want_ to be an Alyt.”

“Of course you do.”

“How do you know that?” Neroon said.

“Because all little warriors want to be Alyts one day.” Burell cocked her head to one side, eyeing him very like prey. “Or perhaps you’ll be one of the Kaliv’nai and keep our laws.”

“And only care about stupid rules and rituals? No, thank you.” Neroon knew he was flying very close to her tolerance, but he couldn’t help himself. Getting a reaction would almost be worth it. Even if it was just a _blink_. But of course he got nothing. She just stared him down until he felt he had to say something just to get her to stop, “And I don’t want to be an Alyt. I just want-”

What he wanted was for everything to be normal again. He didn’t want Burell coming up the steps to drag him to another miserable lesson. He wanted it to be Aiashon or Vashaer or Zakat or Dushenn or even _Sineval_. He wanted to go to the woods and fight and chase and play until they were almost too exhausted to even walk. And then he wanted to come home to his father, who would pick him up and spin him around and pick leaves and grass from his crest brace and joke that it was a wild forest animal, not his son, who had returned. He wanted-

He stopped.

“Would it perhaps mollify you to know that you are mastering this faster than Morreal ra Vonil’bok?” Burell said, gently. He had never mentioned Morreal before so how could she have any idea how much he ~~feared admired~~ _envied_ the Wind Sword, but she always seemed to know everything before he said it anyway. Sometimes he hated her for it. Other times he was grateful.

“Really?” He said, not quite believing.

“Really,” she said, with a ring of satisfaction in her voice. “Now, come sit. I have had sar'chai prepared.”

She gestured to a low table by one of the tall windows, where cups and a pot were already laid out. Neroon heaved a sigh and followed her, sitting cross-legged on one of the cushions. The window directly overlooked the river where it plunged in a series of little waterfalls, and the noise of the water rushing and crashing was the only sound that echoed around the cloisters where the kaliv’nai lived. It was one of the most secluded parts of the Tinarel’s upper citadel, at its highest point before the mountains rose steeply above. From here the river ran through the upper city to the Temple of the Evening Star, where it dropped down the cliffs into the lower city to wind slowly down to the sea.

When Neroon had been much smaller, maybe 5 or 6 cycles, his mother had taken him to the top of the falls to look. His mother had held him up to lean out over the viewing platform, the lower city sprawling beneath him, shining in the mid afternoon sun. He’d been suddenly terrified, thinking how far it was to fall, and imagining himself teetering over the safety rail, falling all that way down to hit the white foam, and he had turned and hid himself in the safety of his mother’s shoulder.

“Don’t be afraid, little Warrior.” His mother had said, hugging him tightly while Neroon had babbled incoherently about how high it was and how last week in creche he had fallen off the climbing frame and it had _hurt_ and Zakat had _laughed_ at him. And the cliffs were _so much_ higher so it would hurt _so much_ more.

“Ssh.” His mother had traced soothing circles on the back of his neck. “You are safe, nhe’Nheroon. I would never let you fall. I will always protect you.”

Except you can’t, Neroon thought, gripping his knees and staring into the crashing foam below, and you couldn’t protect father either because you _weren’t there_. You weren’t there and he died and now everyone says you’re never coming back as well. So why would you do that, why would you make a promise you can’t keep? He felt his eyes pricking again, like yesterday when he’d almost embarrassed himself in front of the Priest. He sniffed, blinking them away. Why was he such a baby, always crying when tears did no good?

“Sar'chai needs to be poured in order to be drunk, zha’den,” Burell said, breaking him out of the memory. She sat opposite him, nil’bok sheathed and resting across her legs. Waiting.

Hastily, he scrubbed his eyes and fumbled with the pot, dripping sar'chai over the table in his hurry to hand Burell her cup before attending to his own. “Sorry, master, for my clumsiness.”

“It’s no matter, zha’den.” She took a small sip, holding the cup in both hands and peering at Neroon over the rim. After a long moment of silence, during which Neroon drank the entirety of his in one scalding gulp and then poured himself a second cup, she said, “I know what you were going to say, zha’den, before you stopped yourself.”

“Of course you do,” Neroon squinted down into his cup, at the granules swaying at the bottom. You always do.

“I am not entirely heartless, though I’m sure you wouldn’t think so,” she said quietly. “But what you want is impossible. The past cannot be changed. We can only live in the present. Your parents are dead, and the sooner you accept that and the alteration of your life, the-”

“-better?” Neroon snorted and suddenly he was just _incredibly_ angry. So angry he couldn’t stop himself. “I wish you and Sech Kedrunn and Alyt Shakaia wouldn’t try to comfort me because you are all _terrible_ at it.” He paused for a moment. “Well, nhe’Khedrunn is not so bad because he at least knows when to shut up. But _you_. You always talk like you know what I’m thinking but you don’t actually care. If you cared you wouldn’t be dragging me out here for these stupid, pointless lessons for a stupid pointless ritual when you know I _don’t_ want to be here. And you know _why_ I don’t want to be here. Because it should be my mother, not me. _I shouldn’t be here._ ”

There. He’d done it now. That was crossing too many lines of disrespect. He hunched over and waited for the scolding that was coming.

Burell sighed. He heard the chink as she put her cup down. “I was going to say the sooner you can direct the course of your life-”

She kept talking, but Neroon wasn’t listening anymore. He put on his most attentive face and did what he always did when an adult was talking and saying nothing: plotted the trajectory of a deep space expedition. He’d been planning this particular voyage for a while. He liked planning. There was something satisfying about organising people and assets into a successful operation. He had been top of his Logistics class even when Zakat had still been around. Only Aiashon and Vashaer were anywhere near as good as him and even so they were happy to let him take the lead during group exercises.

This was his most ambitious project yet; a long haul solo-trip involving several extended periods in hyperspace through a path of rarely used jumpgates. They were so rarely used that he’d had to dig far back in the navigation archives to find a flight path that wasn’t classified. He made some alterations to the original trajectory too, plotting a new course that he was pretty sure would cut hours from the journey. Neroon was very proud of that. It wasn’t every day you got to out think a thousand year old navigator. Navigation was the least of his worries though. Before he even reached space he had to complete an overland portion trekking through the Kozaar Ravine to the Helazel Airfields, which meant he had to be able to carry all his supplies on foot. Calculating his supplies had turned out to be a problem too. He could account for how much he needed for the trip there and back, but he had no idea how long he would need at his destination. Rationing could stretch out the time, but eventually he was going to have to settle on a limit and stick to it. Which left the very real outcome that he might not have enough time to complete his objective.

Perhaps he could pick up supplies at Helazel? That would certainly make things easier. He’d have to look into that. Then there was the issue of the flight itself. He was worried about that. He’d never flown outside a sim before and he didn’t have the engineering skills to deal with any mechanical problems if they arose. He just had to hope tha-

“Do you understand, zha’den?”

All his calculations stopped abruptly. Burell was watching him closely. He relaxed his posture slightly; tried to look his most earnest. “Yes, master. Thank you, master.”

Her eyes flickered slightly. “Are you sure?”

He looked down at his clenched hands. “Yes, it is hard, but I understand. You’re just trying to help. I shouldn’t have snapped. I will try to do as you have suggested.”

She nodded, apparently satisfied. Valen, grown ups were so stupid. He hoped he wouldn’t be like that when he was an adult: old and stupid and unable to do back flips. He’d rather be dead.

“No one can replace your parents, Neroon,” Burell said. “But that doesn’t mean we don’t want what is best for you. All of this is for your benefit.”

“Is that why you wouldn’t let me live with my aunt?” He was still feeling bold. “For my benefit?”

She clicked her tongue. “Don't question the order of things when you know the answer. I think our time today is up. You can find your own way back.”

He bowed his head and rose. “Yes, master.” But as he reached for his tabard and satchel he stopped. “When is our next session, master?”

There was the faintest glimmer of a smile in her eye., “When I decide, zha’den.”

Of course. She always liked to spring these sessions on him. To make sure he’d been a diligent student and kept up with his law reading. He tugged on his tabard with angry jerks. As he stepped towards the door she stopped him with a hand on his elbow. He hadn’t even noticed her move. “I don’t do any of this to torture you, Neroon, but to arm you.”

“Master?”

“We all live under a rule, child. From the greatest Alyt to the smallest zha’den. The rule of our clan, the rule of our caste, the rule of Minbar. Even _I_ must obey this rule, but in knowing it and understanding it we can navigate it to our advantage.” There was the slightest touch of a frown at her brow, as if she could sense that she wasn’t breaking through. “Neroon, if I were to strike you what would you do?”

“You did strike me!” He snapped.

She bit her lip. It was an oddly vulnerable motion for her. “But under ordinary circumstances what would you do?”

“Defend myself.”

“And how would you do that?”

Neroon blinked and shrugged. Where was she going with this? “My body? Or a weapon if I had one.”

“And how do you know how to use these?”

“Training, practice.”

She nodded, smiling. Burell hardly ever smiled - sometimes he wondered if she had any feelings at all, but then something like a soul would break through momentarily like now. “Law, ritual, tradition - these aren’t just the order by which we live and serve, they are also a weapon if applied correctly. With training and practice you can defend yourself against those who would harm you or use you.”

Like you? “Yes, master.”

“Tell you, child,” she laid a hand on his shoulder, “if you persist in your studies and work hard I will teach you the Final Battle.”

“But that’s a nil’bok form!” Neroon jerked out of his angry slump.

“And don’t you want to learn nil’bok?” There was a victorious, gloating edge to her tone. She knew she had him.

It wasn’t worth it. Even learning nil’bok wasn’t worth this. But he knew she’d won. “Yes, master. Thank you, master.”

He cut through the library on his way out, stomping so loudly he startled a pair of students who were consulting a manuscript at one of the reading booths. The older one frowned heavily at him and he signed an apology before slinking the rest of the way out as quietly as possible. Usually he liked to stop in the library for a little after his lessons, give himself some time absorb the calm atmosphere and settle himself, but today he was in a rush to get back and make sure the priest hadn’t done anything stupid while he was gone.

The steps leading down from the Kazhi’bur were cut direct from the crystal, like much of the complex, and were often slick with spray from the waterfalls. It was easy to slip and go tumbling down them, or smack into one of the arches that framed the path. Today was no different and Neroon picked his way down the steps with care, keeping his eyes on the ground. Near the bottom of steps his personal communicator pinged and he paused to fish it out of his hip pocket. A notification was flashing up at the top of the screen. He grinned when he saw who it was, his bad mood diminishing.

 **Zakat:** _What’s the priest like?_

They weren’t really supposed to use their private channels for random chatter, but everyone did it. Neroon leant against one of the arches, out of the way of anyone else who might be on the steps, and tapped out a message. _Stupid._

A few seconds passed and a reply popped up. _You would say that. Heard Sineval didn’t get kitchen duty after all. Rokesh is so soft._

 _Not with me._ Neroon replied.

A long pause. He wondered where Zakat was right now. He would usually be in class, but they must have been cancelled too. Maybe they would finally have time to see each other, but no, that was unlikely. If he was free he would have called instead of sending messages on the sly. He was probably skiving chores. The communicator pinged again. _That’s because you’re so rude. You have the manners of a Narn._

Neroon snorted. He could practically hear Zakat’s mocking tones. He tapped back. _You’ve never even MET a Narn how would YOU know._

_You’re right. I’m besmirching the Narns. They’re probably lovely._

_You are HORRIBLE._

_You deserve it._

Neroon scowled at his communicator and was about to respond when Zakat sent a second message. _Is it true he got thrown out of temple for fighting?_

Neroon grinned. _YES. He thrashed some other acolyte who was being rude about the Caste._

_He doesn’t sound much like Sech Kedrunn. But I hear his mother is a terror._

_How do you hear these things all the time?_

A short pause, and then. _I do this thing called listening. You should try it._

Neroon typed furiously. _I CAN LISTEN._

_To the sound of your own voice._

_You are so mean I don’t know why I miss you._ He regretted that as soon as he sent it. What a silly, soft thing to admit. He fidgeted as he waited for a response, shifting from foot to foot and chewing on his bottom lip. Finally there was a quiet ping.

_I miss you too. Stupid._

Neroon exhaled.

It pinged again. _I should go. Chores. Don’t get into any trouble without me._

So never then, Neroon thought glumly, pocketing the communicator and continuing down the path. He kicked absently at tufts of grass and rocks as he went. It had been good to hear from Zakat again, but it had only reminded him of how much their lives had diverged. There’d been a time when he had imagined they would do everything together for the rest of their lives, maybe even die together, and now that was gone. Just like- _no_ , don’t think about that. Think about-

- _the Priest._

It was good the Priest had come to Tinarel. Sure he was endlessly stupid and extremely peculiar (not that he could help that really, he was Religious Caste after all) but he was also a useful distraction from things he really didn’t want to think about. Neroon had been absolutely fascinated from the moment he saw him; from that strange not-quite-either-caste crest and the scraped knuckles he’d been trying to hide under his sleeves to his funny Tuzanor accent when he spoke Fik and how his freckles formed the constellation of Kariel under his left eye. Neroon would never admit that last observation to anyone. It was silly and fanciful and the sort of thing Aiashon and Vashaer would make fun of him for. Maybe not Zakat, because Zakat had always seen those things too, which is why Zakat was his favourite friend. Or had been. No, still was. Just because you didn’t see someone anymore didn’t mean they stopped mattering.

Anyway the Priest. He wasn’t the first priest Neroon had ever met, but he was definitely the most interesting. Even if he was incredibly stupid. But that was fine. Neroon would protect the priest from his own stupidity. That was what Warriors were supposed to do. That was his _duty._

He was half-way back to Sech Kedrunn’s apartment now, buoyed by the thought of bossing Branmer around (for his own good, of course), when a crowd of his brothers and sisters spilt out of the trees by the river and came squabbling up the hill. Neroon spotted Dushenn and Avahel on the edge of a Night Walker pack, gesticulating wildly at each other. There was a general atmosphere of excitement and anticipation that was at odds with the sombre mood everywhere else and it set a spine of discomfort slicing down Neroon’s back.

“What’s da news, nhe’Dhushenn?”

Dushenn lit up, yelling as she bounded over, “Dy priest fought Morreal!”

Neroon’s mouth dropped open of its own accord. “Morreal ra Vonil’bok?!”

She nodded. “He broke Morreal’s nose! Dey took him to see da Shai Alyd.”

He was momentarily lost for words. Nhe’Bhranmer had defeated _Morreal_. Morreal who was strong and fast and never lost a sparring match. Morreal who spun denn’bok _and_ nil'bok. Morreal who would probably lead the Wind Swords one day, or at the very least, rank among their war leaders and Elders. _That_ Morreal. It couldn’t be.

He found his voice again, “He’s in trouble?”

Dushen shrugged. “Don’t know.”

It finally sank in. The priest had fought Morreal and won. Neroon pressed a fist to his chest proudly. “Du see that, even Star Rider _priests_ are da best fighters.”

Dushenn and Avahel rolled their eyes.

“I should find him. I’ll see du tomorrow.” He said, ignoring their disrespect -the other clans could never accept the superiority of the Star Riders, obvious though it was- and began down the path at a quick trot.

“Say hello to dy priest!” Dushenn called out after him.

“I will!” In his distraction he clipped an older Night Walker, who caught him by the shoulder and shoved him hard.

“Mind dy road!”

“Mind dyne own road, Shakiri!” He spat back, knowing he would probably pay for his rude familiarity later, but deciding it was worth it. He scampered on, hearing Shakiri’s enraged snarl behind him and grinning to himself. What was Shakiri, who had endured his Mora’Dum, doing with a pack of baby Warriors anyway? Probably can’t find anyone his equal he can boss around, Neroon snorted, so much for being _tall_. Neroon might be small, but he could and _would_ boss anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Branmer: /exists/
> 
> Neroon and Morreal: must. protect. stupid. priest.


	6. Caste Relations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gap between updates is getting bigger each time. No real excuse, life just got away from me. This is a very dialogue heavy chapter, pretty much just endless gabbing from everybody. We do learn a little more about Branmer's mother here (who we will meet eventually, I promise). Btw if you want to find me and tell me my head canons suck (you are right, they do) I am sea-devilry on tumblr. I also occasionally post silly doodles of my Minbari OCs there.
> 
> Also oop, I went back and made some edits after posting this chapter, sorry! Nothing major just some bits that I wasn't entirely happy with that I wanted to tweak to improve the flow.

A few minutes of blundering later they emerged, a little scratched and with some fauna attached, onto another path. Morreal set off down it at a leisurely trot. “I hope I haven’t got you in too much trouble with your father.”

Branmer was surprised Morreal even cared. “I’d be more concerned about your mother.”

“Oh, I’m not too worried. She’ll just do what she usually does, which is pretend I don’t exist for a week or two until father convinces her to relent.”

“I’m sorry.” Bramner said. Absolute dismissal could be worse than anger. At least anger was an acknowledgement that you existed.

Morreal shrugged nonchalantly, but his jaw pulsed with tension. “I’m used to it.”

Branmer winced. He couldn't imagine either of his parents treating him so coldly. “What was going on back there?”

Morreal made a curious little noise, like he was holding back a laugh. “I suppose I should be flattered that you think I’m privy to high caste business.”

“Can’t you guess?”

“Can’t you?”

Branmer huffed.

Morreal glanced sidelong at him. “I imagine that the Shai Alyt is negotiating with the Workers for a review of our fleet; something that will require both dock space and material services from them. The Workers will probably agree since in this particular instance the objectives of both Worker and Warrior are alike and it will suit both castes to move as one.”

Branmer considered this. It didn't seem entirely proper, but he was not familiar with higher matters of administration. “My caste is not included in these discussions?”

Morreal smiled slyly. “He is circumventing official channels, it’s true, but that is not so unusual. When our aims align Worker and Warrior often find it convenient to pre-negotiate plans before we make them plain to your caste. Given the urgency, I expect that any agreements made today will already be in action before the priests are told. I am only guessing, of course.”

“We can’t be totally in the dark, surely?” Branmer said. “Doesn’t the Grey Council know he is doing this?”

“Who even knows what they know,” Morreal snorted, and then quieter, so that Branmer almost didn’t hear, “Or cares.”

Branmer tucked that scorn away for later. “I thought Jaihak might be Satai?”

Morreal looked startled, and then cautious. “Not that I know of…she is just Jaihak and that’s enough to command respect. We are capable of that, occasionally. Even we wouldn’t disrespect the Guilds we depend on for our ships. We’re not stupid.”

The path they were on steepened abruptly, earth giving way to rough hewn crystal steps as it led up into an avenue of arches, overgrown with clinging flowers and stranglers. Morreal paused at the top of the steps, letting Branmer catch his breath.

“I know,” Morreal said as they began walking again, “that your caste likes to believe that you’re the only thing holding us back from subjugating the Workers again, but who wants all that trouble? You think that the only blood spilt in Tinarel and its fiefs was between Warriors? Workers aren’t as docile as they’d like you to think.”

“I’ve never learnt much about Warrior Caste history,” Branmer admitted, feeling a degree of shame. “They don’t really teach us that in my temple. I only know what my father told me, and that was mostly stories from your aza’nai tradition. He and my mother used to sing those songs together - that was how they met. She heard him singing and went looking to put a face to his voice.”

“How romantic,” Morreal said dryly. “My mother and father met when she punched him in the face. He and his friends had been making fun of her denn’bok technique. He hit her back of course. It was a good fight apparently, even if their Sech wasn’t pleased.”

Branmer compared this to how he and Morreal had met and laughed. “Does this mean I’m going to end up courting you one day? I’m not sure either of us would survive.”

Morreal pressed his lips together in a strange sort of smile. “Perhaps if I wanted my parents to disown me.”

Branmer had the unpleasant suspicion that he wasn’t joking. Was it because Branmer was Religious Caste, or because his father was a Star Rider? Morreal had gone very grave and quiet and Branmer grasped for something to say, searching the trees for inspiration. The route they were taking seemed to be a long diversion, taking them away from the river and back into the complex somewhere uphill of his father’s quarters. Neroon might even be finished with his lesson with Burell by the time they returned. Ah, Neroon. That reminded him of something. “You, um, can I ask you a question?”

“Yes.” Morreal perked up. "I am at your service.”

“There is something,” Bramner said slowly, still fumbling over the memory. “I witnessed a ritual yesterday, but it’s one I’m unfamiliar with. You probably know more about Warrior Caste rituals - do you know one that involves holding your hand in a flame?”

Morreal blinked and looked down at the path, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “That doesn’t sound like any I know. Our rituals are less mystical than those of your caste, they are more concerned with practicalities - ensuring that a Warrior is properly prepared for the task ahead of them, mentally or physically. Or to test our skill. They rarely call for self-injury because there would be little purpose to that. A Warrior should take care of their body and see to its needs, not destroy it. Unless you are talking about self-annihilation, but that’s a matter of honour.”

“But you have rituals like the Mora’Dum where pain and fear are inflicted on Warriors - how is that so different?”

“Because it is inflicted by others for a purpose. There is a distinction.” Morreal clicked his tongue. “There are some old rituals that call for the letting of blood, and a common ritual involves the passing of a blade through fire, but a hand? When our hands are our most vital instruments? No, that is not one I am familiar with. Was the Warrior a Star Rider?”

“Yes.” Branmer wondered if he should say it was Neroon. No, regardless of how annoying the little monster was he wouldn’t violate his privacy like that.

“Hmm. That could be it,” Morreal said. “The Star Riders are the oldest of all the Warrior clans, and they have many ancient rituals not practiced by the rest of us. I can ask about it. I am studying under our Kaliv’nai, and it would not be thought odd if I took an interest in the rituals of the other clans. If there are any questions I can tell my teachers that I am seeking to prove the superiority of Wind Sword ways over the antiquities of the Star Riders. They would like that.”

“It sounds like you would like that.”

“Maybe,” Morreal said, dipping his shoulders. They came to a cross road in the path and Morreal took the right. Branmer was aware of buildings about them now, obscured by the canopy of trees, and he thought they might have emerged into one of the large courtyards that scattered the complex.

“I really cannot make you out at all.” Branmer said, still trying to orientate himself as he followed Morreal. He was having as much trouble with Morreal as the place.

“Perhaps you should not bother to try,” Morreal replied airily. “Perhaps that is the problem with your caste. You think you must know everything about everyone who crosses your path, as if we are mere objects awaiting your dissection. Trust is a part of faith, and faith is your speciality. So, trust me.”

And Branmer did want to trust Morreal. A part of him did wonder if that was simply because this was the longest conversation he’d had with someone his own age in… well, a long time. He’d gotten so used to his own thoughts for company that he’d almost forgotten how good it was to talk. “If you are training with your Kaliv’nai, then your clan must be expecting a great deal from you.”

“My mother is, certainly, or was. After today,” Morreal laughed bitterly, “I imagine I will have to work hard to redeem myself. At least her focus will be on my shortcomings, and not my brother’s supposed failings. He could use a break.”

“You have a brother as well?” Three was a large family. “Your mother must be proud, surely?”

“Oh, yes, she and father are both very proud. But they also have high expectations. We must be worthy of that pride.” Morreal hesitated. “I believe you have met my brother.”

Branmer shook his head. “I can’t imagine I have. I’ve only been here two days and the only other Wind Sword I know is...”

There was hardly a striking resemblance, and they would certainly never be mistaken for twins, but looking now there was something similar about the set of Morreal’s jaw and his nose.

“We are not very alike,” Morreal laughed, warmth entering his voice. His back was a little straighter and he seemed almost happy. “Sineval is a lot nicer than me.”

“He punched Neroon,” Branmer said, thinking back to his first day in Tinarel. On reflection that meeting should have been a fair warning of what an obnoxious creature Neroon was going to be. Sineval should have punched him harder.

“Ah, yes,” Morreal looked sour. Branmer sympathised completely. “The little Star Rider prince. Anyone would think he was Shai Alyt the way he parades about.”

“You noticed that too?” Branmer couldn't help grinning. “This morning I thought he could be mistaken for the Emperor of Centauri.”

“That’s exactly it!” Morreal cackled with delight. “All hail Emperor Neroon, first of his name! Who do you think would be his Prime Minister? Vashaer maybe? The little Emperor and his enormous Prime Minister. He’ll need a harem of wives to boss around too, but I can’t see anyone volunteering.”

Branmer shook with laughter. It was a freeing feeling, like some shard of misery had shaken loose and was being exorcised. He collapsed on the edge of the path and Morreal followed him. “Can you,” he gasped, “imagine him with that ridiculous fur?”

It was a few minutes before either of them recovered enough to speak.

“Oh no” -Morreal wiped tears from his eyes, body trembling as he tried to contain himself- “we shouldn’t laugh too much at him. He has lost so much, all he really has is his arrogance.”

Branmer sat up, brushing dirt and leaves from his tunic. A thought had occurred to him. “Kalivai Burell took Neroon away. I suppose… do the Star Riders have expectations for him too?”

Morreal picked at the grass between them, mouth twisting. “Yes and no. He is fulfilling a ritual function for them. I... it is Star Rider business. Or they make it theirs even though the ritual is intended for all of us.”

“What do you mean?” Branmer pushed to his feet, holding out his hand to Morreal and pulling him up. “I don’t understand.”

Morreal chewed his lip. He seemed to be considering what to say next very carefully. “It’s very unusual for the Star Riders to have a child that young training with the Kaliv’nai. Even in my clan it is peculiar and we often advance talented students ahead of their age group. Star Riders are more strict about when and how their students progress through training. I suppose it works for them. They do produce some of our best Warriors, and with fewer...” he paused for a moment to smile coldly, “burnouts.”

A shiver went through Branmer. He swallowed, “So, why then?”

“I’m sure you are familiar with Duma ra’Zha’Ril Fili?”

Branmer nodded. It was the most prominent of all the Warrior Caste festivals; lasting a full week and celebrating the end of the Great War and the new compact between the castes, though the actual origin of the festival was thought to be much older. The rituals at its centre were a serious and solemn affair, but the events surrounding them had an earned reputation for rowdiness, or as Sech Kellier had kindly put it, ‘an excess of merriment’. Last year in Tuzenor a group of Warriors had caused a ruckus when they had imbibed too much siljaa extract on the last day and paraded through the city centre in the middle of the night, stopping beneath the windows of unsuspecting citizens to serenade them with disharmonic song. Branmer had been staying with his mother for the festival and when they had come to her window she had flung it open and joined in, much to their delight.

In the end their 'rampage' had only come to a stop when they reached the Anla’shok complex and the Entil’zha, furious at having his sleep disturbed by an unholy and off pitch rendition of the Lay of Sharlin, had stormed out and delivered his review of their performance with the end of a denn’bok.

“What does that have to do with Neroon?” Branmer asked. “Is he taking part in one of the rituals?”

“Yes,” Morreal said, and there was a distinct edge in his voice. “The most important event of the Festival, in fact - the renewing of vows between the Shai Alyt and the Clan leaders. You know much about that? Ah, well, you see, when Rashok died the Shai Alyt after him, Talzhir, was struggling to exert authority over her rivals - so she asked Rashok’s eldest daughter, who was a power in the caste, to stand at her side as a witness during the ceremony to show her support for the new Shai Alyt. This was continued by the Shai Alyt after Talzhir and the one after him too - though by then it was a great grandchild - and so on and so on until a tradition was made. And now, every year a descendant of Rashok stands beside the Shai Alyt and bears witness even though it is long since past necessary. Always a Star Rider, too, which is one of the ways they exert their influence on the rest of the caste.”

Branmer wondered what they would do if all Rashok’s Star Rider descendants died out. His lines of descent were numerous - he had been part of a triune marriage and both his wives had produced children - but all the same, it would only take a few untimely deaths here, a few childless descendants there, and some future Shai Alyt would find themselves without an appropriate witness. Then the implication sunk in. “So Neroon is...?”

Morreal made an angry, jerking motion with his hand. But angry at what? “And his descent is matrilineal too, which makes it better.”

Branmer frowned. A strange choice for such an important event in the Warrior Caste calendar. “That is a lot to put on a child.”

“Hmm.”

“Aren’t there other Star Rider descendents that might be more suitable?” 

“Yes,” Morreal grimaced, “but the Clan leadership claim that since the others are all on duty far away that they can’t possibly be recalled. Duty to Minbar, they say, takes precedence over caste ritual. Which is funny, because in the past they have been very happy to recall whoever they see fit.”

“Then why?”

“I’m not sure, but I have suspicions it may be to do with….” Morreal trailed off, scratching his chin. “There was some trouble with the Fire Wings after his father died. He was a Fire Wing originally, but married into the Star Riders. They tried to claim custodial rights as his only immediate living family and the Star Riders weren’t pleased. I think they may be trying to prove a point. A public point.”

Branmer felt a growing discomfort. “And my father allows this?”

Morreal shrugged. “He may not have a choice. You see he, um, circumvented the clan hierarchy to reach an arrangement with Rashal’s family. I don’t know the exact details, but it was enough that they stopped contesting the guardianship. Whatever he gave up, your Elders weren't happy about it.”

“Ah,” Branmer said, relief cooling his disquiet. “So my father is at odds with the Clan Elders?”

“The rumours are that they threatened to discipline him over the matter, even though he is-” Morreal broke off, shaking his head. “From what I know of your father this is not something he would ever agree to and if he could put a stop to it he would. I’m sorry I can’t tell you much else, but the details have been kept very private. I imagine most Star Riders couldn’t tell you more.”

“It’s far more than I knew before, thank you.” Branmer wondered what Neroon made of it all. He was probably enjoying the fuss. Getting to be part of an important Warrior Caste ritual? If that didn’t satisfy his ego nothing would. As for his father, he must be in an awkward position. It didn't matter how highly you ranked in the caste -which Branmer suspected his father did- you could still get called up by your clan if you did something to offend them. Even Satais weren't exempt.

“Since we are on the subject of caste politics, there is something I should warn you about,” Morreal said, catching Branmer’s arm and leaning in close. His face was so set and stern Branmer almost made an instinctive obeisance. “You can’t trust Shakiri.”

“He seemed friendly enough to me.” Branmer pulled his arm away, puzzled by Morreal's intensity. 

“Oh, yes, he can be very charming when he needs to be,” Morreal said dryly, hands dropping back to his sides. “He was friendly because he was sizing you up and determining whether a further acquaintance would be beneficial to advancing his interests in the caste.”

Branmer snorted, “I have no standing in your caste. I can’t possibly be of any use to him.”

“But your father does,” Morreal said patiently, “and a friendship with you might advance his interest there, you see?”

“I don’t see it.” Branmer shook his head. “If that’s the case, he would be assuming I have a degree of influence over my father that doesn’t exist.”

“Are you sure about that?” Morreal stared at him curiously. “Shai’mir, your father is exceptionally proud of you. Some might say more proud than he should be, of a son who will never be a Warrior and is therefore of no real value.”

Branmer suspected that ‘some’ included Morreal’s mother. “What you said by the riv-”

“I was goading you. It was the worst thing I could think of to say,” Morreal said, “and it was a lucky hit, frankly. Who would have thought Kedrunn ra Fi’sularae’s _precious_ son would be so uncertain of his father’s good opinion?”

Lavek was right, he had revealed too much. He clenched his fists. Where had his discipline gone? He hadn’t used to be like this. What was wrong with him? “And how do I know you’re not doing exactly the same thing as Shakiri, zha’den?”

“A good question!” Morreal laughed. “But I have a very strange way of going about it if I am, don’t I?”

“Or just a very calculating way,” Branmer said. “Look, if Shakiri is such a climber, why would he join a clan that is notoriously hostile to outsiders? Wouldn’t he be better off staying with the Night Walkers?”

Morreal shook his head. “The Night Walkers are too numerous and their clan structure too diffused. It’s a lot more work to make your mark. Even as an outsider he has a better chance of advancing quickly in the Wind Swords. Especially married to my sister.”

“He must really love your sister if he’s willing to put up with a Wind Sword hazing.”

“You are right there,” Morreal mused, peering up as they came to the end of the arches and emerged from the trees at the entrance to a narrow passage. The buildings rising up on either side of them looked very old, built in a hodgepodge of different styles. “He is certainly in love with my sister. That I don’t doubt. Only a genuine infatuation could produce such utterly _dreadful_ poetry. But, what I am not so sure about is whether that love would have been enough for him if it didn’t also serve to advance him. I think he would have walked away and found a more advantageous, loveless, match.”

“I can’t imagine anyone entering into a courtship for such unworthy reasons.”

Morreal threw him a deeply amused look. “Oh, you are naive.”

Branmer sputtered, “If a couple were inappropriate for one another that would quickly become apparent. That is the whole point of these rituals. It’s just no-”

“It’s really never occurred to you,” Morreal interrupted, “that someone could participate in these rituals without entering into the spirit of them? No, of course you wouldn’t, your parents were a love match. That’s the ideal, but it isn’t always the reality. And sometimes the reason a couple is inappropriate has less to do with their hearts than with their clan and their caste.”

There was a real bitterness in Morreal’s voice now, a personal wound; open and bleeding in front of Branmer.

“Morreal-” he began, but he was cut off.

“It is fine for my sister, you see, to join with a Night Walker, because our clan is gaining a son and any children will be Wind Swords. It’s not exactly what my mother would have wanted, but it’s acceptable. But if I did the same my children must be Night Walkers and that is unacceptable. So I had better find a Wind Sword one day or not bother at all.”

Branmer blanched. He saw the problem. Clan membership, just like caste, was determined by your mother. For the Night Walkers, who were the largest of the Warrior Caste Clans, it hardly mattered if a number of their sons wandered off to father Fire Wings or Star Riders, but for the Wind Swords, who were much smaller and almost as obsessed with the continuance of their traditions as the Star Riders, it was a loss that couldn’t be allowed.

“You’ve put far more thought into this than I ever have.” Branmer scratched at the back of his crest, feeling more than a little awkward. Courtship had always seemed a distant, unreal concept to him. He knew the order of rituals, of course, but he’d never thought about them in relation to his own future the way Morreal did. Although last year he’d had that embarrassing infatuation with an acolyte in the year above him who, as far as he could tell, wasn’t aware he even existed at the time. She was probably aware of him now. Just in the worst way possible. “Is-is there someone you like?”

“No, I just” -Morreal stared at the ground- “I don’t like looking ahead at my future and seeing all my choices made for me.”

“Until recently I thought my whole life was planned out already. Now I have no idea what will happen to me or if I’ll even be allowed to go back to my Order.” Branmer gestured between them. “Maybe we should swap.”

Morreal looked up, the corners of his mouth curling. “You wouldn’t make a bad Warrior, but I think I’d make a terrible priest.”

“Perhaps you’d be better suited to a lay vocation,” Branmer grinned, “like my mother.”

“You are going to have to explain all that to me some time,” Morreal said, shaking his head as he directed Branmer down a set of steps. Branmer was beginning to recognise some of the buildings now, and thought they must be near his father’s apartment. “I don’t understand how all your Fanes and Orders work. It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“I suppose it seems complicated compared to Warrior clans,” Branmer said. “My mother is of the Second Fane, but is only a tertiary lay member of the Order. She has never taken vows and only lives in temple for my sake. Our Order is strict about children being raised and educated in temple even if their parents are only tertiaries. Some Fanes don’t even have an associated order, or if they do you don’t need to be a member, but in Sanaya you would have to leave your Fane if you wanted to leave the Order.”

“Oh, no wonder you are so sheltered,” Morreal remarked scornfully. “I’d heard the Order of Sanaya was very insular. Now I know why. Incredible your mother ever got far enough from temple grounds to meet your father.”

“Actually,” Branmer paused at the bottom of the steps, cringing a little with embarassment, “she didn’t. It was my father who wandered into the temple gardens. He’d never been to Tuzenor before and he was exploring. I think some of my Fane think he poached her, to be honest.”

Morreal wheezed with laughter. “Ah yes, the wicked Warrior carrying off their poor innocent priestess.”

“I told you. My mother isn’t a priestess.” Branmer bristled a little. “She’s a lay member. It’s different.”

“Yes, yes.” Morreal waved dismissively. “It’s funny all the same.”

“Says the Wind Sword,” Branmer sniffed. “Bet I’m the first priest you’ve ever talked to for any length.”

“We’re actually one of the more devout clans. You want to go looking in the Fire Wings and the Moon Shields for all the real heretics,” Morreal laughed. “And I have Religious Caste teachers. You know, for frivolous subjects like Philosophy, Theology and Meditation.”

“Those aren’t frivolous.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure philosophy will be very useful to me when I’m evading enemy fire.”

“I would think that at the very least having a philosophical underpinning to your life would give one resolve in the face of death,” Branmer said. “Don’t you like to think about things at all?”

“I think it is possible to think yourself into knots, if you aren’t careful,” Morreal laughed, “and I am already adept at that without help from your caste.”

He was still smiling to himself when they cut through another alley and suddenly emerged out onto the courtyard that fronted his father’s apartment. It was very quiet and the air was heavy with that sweet smokey oil that burned for the dead. The only sign of any activity were the delivery boxes the Workers had left outside each door. They paused to toe off boots in the doorway and then Morreal helped Branmer lift up their box and take it into the apartment.

“Your father cooks?” Morreal said, as he pried open the cooling section to take out the meat.

“Yes, and my mother. Your parents don’t?”

“No,” Morreal smiled, “we get our meals made by the Workers. Might as well make use of them if they’re there. But I suppose your father was from Ranesh originally, so that explains it.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” There was an insulting undertone to Morreal’s voice that Branmer didn’t like.

“It’s small,” Morreal gave another of his nonchalant shrugs, “and isolated. I’ve noticed that Warriors from places like that seem to prefer making shift for themselves. It’s tough living out there so maybe the Workers don’t have time to wait on us the way they do here, or back home. I’ve heard in some places out on the plains Warriors even have to pitch in when extra hands are needed during harvest.”

“And I suppose that would be beneath you?”

“Don’t be so sure,” Morreal said. “It’s probably good exercise.”

They were nearly done unpacking when Neroon burst through the terrace entrance and skidded to a halt in the centre of the room.

“Priest, is it true?! You fought Morreal?” He looked between them with a wild expression, his whole body vibrating with delight. “You did!!! And you won?!”

“Neroon,” Branmer snapped, a little scandalised by how visibly excited he was. “Your shoes!”

Neroon yelped and skittered back onto the terrace, kicking off his boots and coming back inside with a rueful posture. “You won, priest?”

“Yes, he did,” Morreal said, thumping a packet down on the counter with unneeded force.

Neroon squinted at Morreal. “Dushenn said your nose was broken!”

“The Hela’mer fixed it already,” Morreal replied. “What, were you hoping to catch a glimpse of me properly bloodied so you could gloat? You Star Riders are such archaic savages.”

Neroon swore at Morreal and threw his bag down, advancing on Branmer. “Give me your tunic, priest, I will put it to soak.”

“Hey!” Branmer smacked Neroon’s grabbing hands away. “Stop that! I’ll give it to you in a moment.”

Neroon scuttled about excitedly while Branmer removed his tunic, shooing Morreal away from the kitchenette and taking command of the delivery box. “I can do this! Do you want sar’chai? I will make sar’chai!”

“I don’t understand why he’s so excited,” Branmer said, once he had been divested of his outer tunic and they were sitting out of Neroon’s way on the terrace. “I didn’t do anything worthy of praise - I did something bad.”

“But it was impressively bad,” Morreal said. “Don’t be so _religious_ about it and just enjoy the adulation. It’s not everyday you get served by an Emperor.”

Branmer giggled into his sleeve. “Is he normal? For a Warrior child?”

Morreal considered this, tapping his chin an exaggerated motion. “Oh, pretty normal. He _is_ quite immature for his age, but Star Rider’s like to coddle their children. They’re almost as bad as the Moon Shields for that. He probably still plays that stupid chase game.”

Privately Branmer thought Morreal could have benefited from a bit of coddling.

“I’m surprised losing his parents hasn’t matured him at all, but I suppose everyone reacts in their own way to these things,” Morreal continued quietly, a moody look coming over him. “There’s a lot of bitterness in the caste about it - Nerzhan’s death most of all. She was well liked, even in my clan and we hardly ever like Star Riders.”

“How did she die?” Branmer leant in close to whisper, keenly aware of Neroon on the other side of the terrace doors.

“Some kind of accident in deep space,” Morreal said, “which is not so unusual. But I knew something was really wrong because the Shai Alyt held a council with all his advisors and afterwards they sent an envoy to the Grey Council. He only does that when he’s putting his foot down about something.”

“How do you know it was about Nerzhan?”

Morreal looked smug and bumped their shoulders together. “Same way I know everything; my parents. What they don’t tell me I eavesdrop. They tell me quite a lot.”

“How nice for you,” Branmer said, thinking bitterly of his father’s silence on Warrior Caste matters.

“I’ll tell you something else-” Morreal stopped.

Neroon was in the doorway, holding a tray with cups and a steaming pot aloft with a triumphant pose. The broad grin on his face faltered when he saw the way they were sitting; close and conspiratorial. He frowned, “What’s going on?”

“Just talking,” Morreal said, which was not really a lie.

“Really,” Neroon said, glaring between the two of them with such furious intensity that Branmer winced. Then he thumped the tray down next to them, so hard he nearly overturned the cups, and stomped back inside without another word.

“He guessed what we were talking about, didn’t he?” Branmer said, eyeing the spill that was spreading across the tray.

“He’s probably getting used to walking in on abrupt silences,” Morreal sighed, picking up one of the cups. A drip formed at the base and splashed on the flagstones.

“I should go after him.”

“Leave him be,” Moreal said, looking at him over the rim of his cup. “The last thing he needs is you getting all priestly with him. And what could you offer him anyway? Rituals? You priests think everything can be solved by silly rituals, but will the na’fak’cha bring back his parents? Will it make him any less an orphan?”

Branmer picked up his own cup, wiping the base on his trousers. “Of course it wouldn’t do either of those things, but it can provide a moment to mark and reflect on the transition his life is undergoing.”

“I have never undergone the na’fak’cha, but I know that it requires giving up something important to you,” Morreal traced circles in the dust at his feet. “What could he possibly give up? He has already lost everything and you want to ask more? That’s cruel, priest.”

Branmer looked away. It pained him to admit it, but Morreal was right. Given the circumstances a ritual like the na'fak'cha _would_ be a cruelty. “I wouldn’t have suggested it anyway. It’s not the only thing we can offer.”

“Now if only the rest of your caste were as sensible,” Morreal took a long sip and laughed, “how much trouble we’d avoid.” He saw the look on Branmer’s face and nudged him gently. “Cheer up, priest. I’m only teasing.”

“You tease an awful lot and I can’t always tell how serious you are.”

“It’s about half and half if that helps.” He cupped his hands around the sar’chai, drinking in quick gulps, like he was afraid it was going to disappear. “This is the longest I’ve ever spent in a Star Rider house. I hope I don’t start developing a peculiar obsession with honour. That would really put mother out.”

“I thought honour mattered to all Warriors.” Branmer drank his a little slower - it was still hot and burnt his tongue as he swallowed.

“Some more than others.” Morreal finished his drink and let it rest on his knee. “My clan has a more practical approach. Star Riders are all mad about honour. They are constantly tripping over it.”

Branmer smiled behind his cup. “Whereas the Wind Swords set aside moral conduct whenever it’s even slightly inconvenient.”

Morreal’s head jerked round, eyes momentarily widening before narrowing to slits. “Oh, who’s teasing who now?”

“I can’t let you come into my father’s house and insult his clan and let it pass, can I?”

“No, I suppose you can’t.” Morreal smiled crookedly, starting to lean back on his elbows and then sitting up suddenly, his attention fixing on the communal area below. Branmer’s father was at the bottom of the steps, pausing to greet a small group of Warriors who were heading out together. “My cue to leave I think.”

“You don’t need to go,” Branmer said, setting his cup aside.

“I think I must.” Morreal put his cup down on the tray and went to fetch his boots, pulling them on just as Kedrunn came over the last step.

Kedrunn tilted his head in Morreal’s direction. “This is unexpected. I suppose this means Branmer has apologised.”

Morreal saluted, glancing sly and sidelong at Branmer. “Yes, Zhaden’na Alyt -my apologies- Sech Kedrunn, I was just leaving.”

Kedrunn’s eyes narrowed, “No sense in loitering then, zha’den.”

Morreal sped off down the steps with only a quick, triumphant smile tossed in Branmer’s direction. Branmer returned the smile, feeling an immense swell of gratitude towards Morreal for realising what he couldn’t ask himself. He turned to follow his father, who was already stalking into the apartment, kicking off his boots on the way.

“You’re a war leader?” Being Zhaden’na would place his father below only the Shai Alyt and his Vana Alyt. “When were you going to tell me that?”

“What is a war leader when there is no war?” His father said absently, unclipping his belt and shrugging off his outer tunic, tossing it on the couch. He stretched, his neck cracking as he rolled it from shoulder to shoulder. “Where is Neroon?”

“Here, master!” Neroon came skidding out of their bedroom, sleeves flapping wildly. His eyes were watery and he had the look of someone who had just been hastily reassembling themselves.

“Ah, good.” Kedrunn folded his arms. “Neroon, I need to discuss some matters regarding your stewardship. Some of the agreements with the Worker Caste need to be renegotiated.”

Neroon stared up at Kedrunn very solemnly and said, in a small voice, “Isn’t that under your guardianship until I’m of age, master?”

“Yes, but I have an obligation to ensure you are kept informed of any significant changes.” Kedrunn tipped his head to one side. “I wouldn’t want the Clan to make any decisions that the future steward might regret.”

Neroon looked at his feet, biting his lip. “Right now?”

Kedrunn smiled. “No, it can wait until after we’ve eaten tonight. I need to speak to Branmer in private just now. Think you can keep yourself occupied?”

Neroon nodded. “I can practice denn’bok.”

“Stewardship?” Branmer asked once Neroon had disappeared into the training room. He felt thin and weak all of a sudden.

“Yes, some lands in the trust of the Star Riders that are traditionally the responsibility of Neroon’s family,” Kedrunn said. “Unless the Clan decides otherwise -which is not likely- those rights will pass back to him when he has the experience to manage them. Speaking of responsibilities, there is something I need you to do for me. The current situation means I will not be able to fulfill my obligations to the bereaved - you must take offerings in my stead. I will make preparations tonight and Neroon can show you what to do tomorrow.”

Branmer felt even thinner and weaker. He was fairly sure he was becoming incorporeal. “If that is what you require of me, va’mala, then I will do it.”

His father squinted at him, glimmering with amusement. “Don’t look so concerned. They are my friends. They won’t bite you.”

“Yes, va’mala.”

“You are always so formal when you are worried,” Kedrunn sighed. “Look, Branmer, I-”

“I’m sorry I shamed you in front of the Shai Alyt!” Branmer blurted out. “I really didn’t mean to - it happened so fast and then Azari Nareel appeared and there’s no excuse I’m sorry!”

“Actually I think the Shai Alyt liked you,” Kedrunn said. “He tends to have a fondness for people who talk back. Otherwise I think he would have exiled Verann to some distant outpost years ago.”

Branmer sniffed, staring at his feet. He could feel tears pricking at his eyes and his arms were trembling. “You’re not angry?”

“Disappointed. But, knowing Morreal as I do, I can make a guess that it was deliberately provoked.” There was a smile in Kedrunn’s voice. “He and Neroon both have a talent for inciting offense, though Morreal has perhaps a more sophisticated approach.”

“Yes.” Branmer wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “Neroon would have just called me stupid.”

“I’m sure he will expand his vocabulary given time.” Kedrunn slid one of the cupboard doors open and began picking through packets, frowning when he found the top of the sar’chai tin missing. “Honestly, that child never puts anything away properly. Branmer, I know you are not entirely happy about training with us, but I think it will be a good experience for you. It may teach you some restraint. And if you are worried about falling behind your other studies I can arrange for lessons with some of our Religious Caste Sechs.”

“I would like that,” Branmer said softly, twining his fingers together. “I wish I knew how long I was going to be here.”

“As do I.” Kedrunn picked out a tin of powdered iyiir root, a mild pain remedy. His mouth twisted as he dropped it on the counter. “I’m not unhappy to have you here, but I must admit I am not impressed by the conduct of your Order in this matter. Turning you out without a clear path to return…. Warriors know all the ways to cause injury, to kill, to destroy, but when it comes to sheer cruelty, we still have so much to learn from your caste.”

He’d heard his father grumble about administrative disputes with the Religious Caste before, but he’d never sounded so embittered. “It was my fault, va’mala. I behaved poorly and they can’t be expected to-”

“You are still a child. No matter how badly you have behaved it is the responsibility of the adults in your life to offer understanding and guidance, not just send you away.” Kedrunn set a cup down so hard he cracked it. He stared at the cup for a moment with a somewhat lost expression before recollecting himself. “I will have to fix that later. Sorry, nhe’Bhran, it has been a difficult day and I have a lot on my mind. There is much to prepare before you begin training, and there are things you need to know about the ca-”

“Morreal said he would help me with that.”

“Did he?” Kedrunn seemed perplexed by this. “I cannot allow your understanding to come from a Wind Sword. They have… peculiar notions. And he is only a child himself.”

“I like him, even if he is a Wind Sword. He’s honest.”

“Vonilbok’aza’ri,” Kedrunn muttered, shaking his head. He put the cup aside and picked out another one, placing it on the counter with exaggerated gentleness. “You are welcome to like him, but you cannot rely on him for everything.”

“You didn’t even tell me your rank!” Branmer snapped, his frustration flaring up. “I had to wait for Morreal to do that!”

“It was not a deliberate deception. It is simply that,” Kedrunn heaved a sigh, tapping on the counter, “in the caste I do not need to go around telling anyone my rank because they would just know. So it did not even occur to me. Your mother must be picking up Warrior Caste habits because she didn’t think to tell you either.”

“Don’t hide behind va’sala!” Branmer could feel that he was losing his grip on his temper. His heart was beating too loudly and his thoughts were beginning to slide together. “If it wasn’t deliberate why were you annoyed that Morreal told me?”

“Because it was a break of protocol in two instances.” Kedrunn shrugged. “You don’t address a war leader by their full rank like that, especially in front of someone from outside the caste. The correct address from Alyt upwards is just Alyt, unless you are addressing the Shai Alyt himself. And I am also Morreal’s teacher. While I may outrank him, my relationship to him is not that of a superior officer, I am his Sech and that is the correct address.”

Branmer was barely holding on now. “That is absurd!”

“Oh, as if your caste doesn’t have it’s share of absurdities.” His father was smiling now. He folded his arms and regarded Branmer calmly. The iyiir root and cup were left forgotten on the counter. “Go on. You are angry I did not tell you all these things and that is fair. What else would you like to know?”

Branmer took a few deep breaths. When he felt like he wasn’t going to explode anymore he said, “I don’t… I don’t even know where to begin asking. How long...?”

He seemed to understand. “Since I returned to Tinarel. It was a recent step.”

Branmer nodded. “Then you must have been an Alyt in Tuzenore. I should have guessed you were always more than a Sech. You couldn’t have been Azari otherwise.”

“That’s true. You have to be an Alyt to serve on the Azari. More experience is required of them than an ordinary guard.”

But they didn’t wear the uniform of an Alyt and they weren’t addressed as Alyt. That probably meant something beyond protocol; putting aside your own status and rank to represent and protect the Shai Alyt perhaps. Nareel didn’t seem to have the temperament Branmer would have expected of an Azari or an Alyt, but maybe she had other qualities Lavek found useful.

Branmer also knew you didn’t rise to any rank within the Warrior Caste without space faring experience, but he’d never properly placed his father within that context. “Have you commanded a ship?”

“Of course,” Kedrunn said, “a Sharlin cruiser. I had served on her for some years as executive officer before I took command.”

“Have you-” Branmer’s voice came out in an embarrassing squeak and he coughed, “have you met aliens?”

“The Norsai, of course, and some others from our protectorate worlds. A few Centauri. Weak, febrile creatures.” Kedrunn pulled a face. “And once, when I was on one of my very first assignments, I met a Narn. She was a freedom fighter fleeing Centauri territory in a stolen ship. Her engines had cut out and she’d been floating dead in space for days when we picked her up.”

“Did you get to talk to her?!” Branmer touched his face, tracing his freckles. “What were her spots like?!”

“They were very pretty,” Kedrunn laughed. “Alyt Vaneer asked me to liaise with her because I was the only one who knew any Narn. We thought she might be insulted if we spoke to her in Centauri.”

Surprising that the Warrior Caste would even think of such considerations when dealing with an alien encroaching on their space, but perhaps Alyt Vaneer had a more sensitive touch.

Kedrunn had a faraway look in his eyes. “She told me about her family, back on Narn. That was why she was fighting, so her children would be free. I liked her very much. She fought for honourable and good reasons, while the Centauri fight for nothing but their own enrichment.”

“Did you help her fix her ship?”

“Yes,” Kedrunn shook out of his reverie and smiled as crookedly as Morreal, “and she may have left with greater firepower than she arrived with, but I cannot be sure.”

“Va’mala!” Branmer was both delighted and appalled.

“Best not to spread that around. It would be a serious violation of our declared neutrality,” he sighed wistfully. “It is truly a shame that we are so set on isolating ourselves. There is much we could offer to the younger races and much we could discover in return. I would have liked to see more of the galaxy. It seems a waste that only those who go to sea get to explore it fully, and only at the end of their lives. Were I ever to go to the sea of stars I would not be unhappy if my path took me through them to Narn. I should like to meet Na’thal again. She is often in my prayers.”

“That was her name? Na’thal?” Branmer tried out the sound of it, wondering about this Narn who had left such an impression on his father.

“Yes, Na’thal,” Kedrunn smiled softly. “She told me my Narn was terrible and I would have to come to Narn to learn it properly one day. I suppose I never will now.”

Branmer had never seen his father look so sad and regretful before. He'd never really considered how much his father must have given up to be with them. “You must miss space. Tuzenore must have been boring by comparison.”

“I was grounded long before I ever met your mother,” Kedrunn straightened up, any lasting regret vanishing into fondness, “and raising you was never boring. You were an extremely inquisitive baby, always getting into things and exploring. I had to keep my nil’bok locked away because I was terrified you’d get your hands on it. I still haven’t recovered from the time I found you holding my denn’bok up to your eye and trying to shake it open.”

“I never even knew you still had a nil’bok.”

“I don’t anymore,” Kedrunn said. “They are very limited in number and new ones are never forged unless an old one is lost. When my service in the Azari was done it was returned to the Kaliv’nai, ready for its next owner. I was happy to see it go. It is a weapon that belongs to another era, one I am glad not to live in.”

Which meant, of course, that his father must have continued in the Azari for some years after he was born. All that time, and this was the most he had ever spoken of his life as a Warrior. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this? Didn’t you think I might want to know about my own father?”

“I wasn’t given much choice,” Kedrunn said, one corner of his mouth twitching so it was set crooked. It wasn't a smile, but something else Branmer couldn't place. “Your Fane were very clear on the matter. They made allowances for some things, your crest for example, but they didn’t want you being overly influenced by Warrior Caste ways and politics. Not while you were of an impressionable age.”

“Did they think if I learnt too much I would convert? That’s ridiculous.” It was the sort of thinking he might have expected from Hevann, not the Fane Elders. Did they really think that little of him?

“You wouldn’t be the first priest to stray into our ranks after a little exposure,” Kedrunn said. “And I’m sorry I didn’t fight them harder, but they were already furious that I refused to convert.”

“They wanted _you_ to convert?” It was so absurd Branmer almost laughed, but it made sense. And failing in that they'd clearly determined that if they couldn't keep the father in line, then they'd ensure the son was a proper, good little priest. Even if it meant denying him a part of his heritage.

“That would have been the easiest way for your mother and I to be together, you see, but that’s not my calling. Never will be,” Kedrunn heaved a sigh with his whole body. “Most courtships are difficult, but ours was a nightmare. There were moments when we almost gave it all up. I had friends, good friends, who told me I was being a fool and I should just walk away. After going through all that I was loathe to do anything that might cause further offense, especially when it came to you.”

Branmer bit his lip. He could only imagine what they must have dealt with. Objections from both sides of the equation, no doubt. The Star Riders couldn't have been happy about losing Kedrunn to some backwards Religious Caste lay member. And as for his Fane... well the best you could say is that they'd always been coldly polite to his father. “I guessed that my Fane never approved of you and mother, but I didn’t realise how much.”

“It is what it is. I’ve resigned myself to it.” Kedrunn seemed to remember he had been making a drink, and turned back to the iyiir packet, spooning quantities of it into his cup. “And since they have seen fit to send you here, I no longer consider myself bound by any earlier agreement. Ignorance might suit you in temple, but it won’t here.”

He added water and stirred, pausing to frown down at the liquid as it mixed and coalesced into a thick, syrupy texture. “I am,” he said softly, “surprised they sent you here, considering. But perhaps they finally see some value in our practices.”

It wasn’t that. Branmer knew immediately. Why would they suddenly change their minds? His exile, combined with what his father had told him, could lead to only one conclusion, and the weight of it came crashing over him all at once. He had to sit. He couldn’t stand under all that pressure bearing down. It was too much and too awful to bear. His voice seemed to come from some distance, small and lost and unfamiliar even to him. “They’ve given up on me. They thought they could train the Warrior out of me and now they’ve failed they just want to be rid of me.”

“No,” Kedrunn joined him on the floor, pressing a hand to his shoulder, “Nhe’Bhranmer, no one has given up on yo-”

“What else can it be?” His hands were trembling. He hugged himself, digging his fingers into his arms to try to stop the shaking. “What am I supposed to do?”

His father hesitated, squeezing his shoulder gently. “Branmer, I know that it seems like the only course open to you is returning to your Order, but have you-” he broke off, pausing for a moment as if to collect his thoughts “-have you ever considered that your place might lie elsewhere?”

Branmer jerked back, his shoulder burning where his father’s hand had been. The whole room seemed to tilt. “W-what? You’re doubting my vocation?”

Kedrunn spread his hands, palms flat. “I am only suggesting that-”

“That what?!” Branmer tried to stand, stumbling awkwardly. “That I should be a Warrior instead? You’re happy about this, aren’t you?!”

His father frowned. “Branmer, that is not what I-”

“Then what DID you mean?!!” His heart was hammering violently and he could hardly hear past the rushing in his ears. He couldn’t believe - his own father - how could he - HOW??

“Perhaps this is a conversation best left for another time, when you are calmer,” Kedrunn said, reaching out a hand to touch his shoulder again. Branmer veered away from him, finally managing stagger upright. “Maybe you need some time to-”

“Don’t touch me!” Branmer screamed, stomping to the bedroom door and throwing it open. He slammed it so hard behind him that it rebounded a few inches, leaving a gap. Unable to face the added humiliation of having to slide the door shut properly, he chose to ignore it and threw himself face down on his bed.

Somewhere else in the apartment a door creaked open and quiet footsteps padded into the main room. “Is nhe’Bhranmer alright?”

Nhe’Bhranmer?! He almost howled with outrage. Neroon hadn’t earned the right to speak so familiarly! As if he were a friend or a family member!

“He’s just going through a lot at the moment. You might want to avoid the bedroom for a while.”

“Did he get in trouble with the Shai Alyt?”

“No, not exactly, but he’s going to be training with our caste for a while and he’s not happy about it.” A short pause. “How did your lesson with Burell go today?”

Neroon mumbled something Branmer couldn’t catch. He rolled onto his side, peeking through the gap in the door. Only a narrow slice of the room was visible, but it was enough to catch Kedrunn crouching with Neroon in front of him, holding him by the elbows.

“And you’d tell me if it was too much, wouldn't you?” Kedrunn’s voice was very soft as he searched Neroon’s face. Neroon stilled, looking down at his feet and nodded indistinctly. Kedrunn smiled sadly, reaching up to tug at one of the spikes on Neroon’s crest. “Good. Now, nhe’Nheroon, I need your help with our evening meal and then we must prepare offerings for tomorrow. But first-”

The rest was cut off in a whirl of motion and a squeal of delight as Neroon was lifted up and spun into the air. They disappeared from view, but their laughter continued, ringing unpleasantly in Branmer’s ears. He turned his back on the door, hands clenching, fingernails biting into his palms. There was an ugly, unpleasant feeling rising up in his chest and he knew it wasn’t rational or true but it spoke directly to his fears and he listened all the same.

There, on the other side of that door, his father had the son he really deserved. Not a weak, useless priest, but a Warrior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To think, if things had gone differently Branmer could have been half-Narn :') I suppose you could say it's odd that Kedrunn sees Na'thal as honorable given that Narn tactics would probably be very dishonorable by Minbari standards, and we know they take a hard line on these things, but his view is that at least her reasons are honorable, whereas the Centauri are just bad twice over (also she has pretty spots!!!). 
> 
> There was supposed to be a conversation with Verann this chapter where we finally got into all the hErESY in the Warrior Caste, but I ended up pushing that into a later chapter because it fit better there and I felt like Branmer had enough stuff to process at this point.
> 
> Next chapter will have more action (dialogue haters breath a sigh of relief here) and we will see more of bad boy Shakiri and he may do... a _bad._


End file.
